LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

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77 


7 


THE    UNCALLED 


THE  UNCALLED 

A  Novel 


BY 


PAUL    LAURENCE    DUNBAR 

Author  of  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life  " 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,  MEAD    AND   COMPANY 
1898 


Copyright,  1S98 
BY  PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

Copyright,  1S98 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


Dedicated 
TO   MY   WIFE 


21G95G 


THE    UNCALLED 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  was  about  six  o'clock  of  a  winter's 
morning.  In  the  eastern  sky  faint 
streaks  of  grey  had  come  and  were  succeeded 
by  flashes  of  red,  crimson-cloaked  heralds  of 
the  coming  day.  It  had  snowed  the  day 
before,  but  a  warm  wind  had  sprung  up  dur 
ing  the  night,  and  the  snow  had  partially 
melted,  leaving  the  earth  showing  through 
in  ugly  patches  of  yellow  clay  and  sooty 
mud.  Half  despoiled  of  their  white  mantle, 
though  with  enough  of  it  left  to  stand  out 
in  bold  contrast  to  the  bare  places,  the 
houses  loomed  up,  black,  dripping,  and 
hideous.  Every  once  in  a  while  the  wind 
caught  the  water  as  it  trickled  from  the 
eaves,  and  sent  it  flying  abroad  in  a  chill 
unsparkling  spray.  The  morning  came  in, 
cold,  damp,  and  dismal. 

At  the  end  of  a  short,  dirty  street  in  the 


2          The  Uncalled 

meanest  part  of  the  small  Ohio  town  of 
Dexter  stood  a  house  more  sagging  and 
dilapidated  in  appearance  than  its  disrepu 
table  fellows.  From  the  foundation  the 
walls  converged  to  the  roof,  which  seemed 
to  hold  its  place  less  by  virtue  of  nails  and 
rafters  than  by  faith.  The  whole  aspect  of 
the  dwelling,  if  dwelling  it  could  be  called, 
was  as  if,  conscious  of  its  own  meanness,  it 
was  shrinking  away  from  its  neighbours  and 
into  itself.  A  sickly  light  gleamed  from  one 
of  the  windows.  As  the  dawn  came  into 
the  sky,  a  woman  came  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  She  was  a  slim  woman,  and 
her  straggling,  dusty-coloured  hair  hung  about 
an  unpleasant  sallow  face.  She  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  as  if  tKe  faint  light  could 
hurt  those  cold,  steel-grey  orbs.  "  It 's 
mornin',"  she  said  to  those  within.  "  I  '11 
have  to  be  goin'  along  to  git  my  man's 
breakfast :  he  goes  to  work  at  six  o'clock, 
and  I  'ain't  got  a  thing  cooked  in  the  house 
fur  him.  Some  o'  the  rest  o'  you  '11  have 
to  stay  an'  lay  her  out."  She  went  back  in 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  La,  Mis'  Warren,  you  ain't  a-goin' 
a'ready  ?  Why,  there 's  everything  to  be 
done  here  yit :  Margar't  's  to  be  laid  out,  an' 


The  Uncalled          3 

this  house  has  to  be  put  into  some  kind  of 
order  before  the  undertaker  comes." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  else  I  'm  a- 
goin'  to  do,  Mis'  Austin.  Charity  begins 
at  home.  My  man  's  got  to  go  to  work,  an' 
he  's  got  to  have  his  breakfast :  there  's  cares 
fur  the  livin'  as  well  as  fur  the  dead,/ 1  say, 
an*  I  don't  believe  in  tryin'  to  be  so  good  to 
them  that 's  gone  that  you  furgit  them  that 's 
with  you." 

Mrs.  Austin  pinched  up  her  shrivelled 
face  a  bit  more  as  she  replied,  "  Well,  some 
body  ought  to  stay.  I  know  I  can't,  fur 
I  've  got  a  ter'ble  big  washin'  waitin'  fur  me 
at  home,  an'  it 's  been  two  nights  sence  I  Ve 
had  any  sleep  to  speak  of,  watchin'  here. 
I'm  purty  near  b^oke  down." 

"That's  jest  what  I've  been  a-sayin'," 
repeated  Mrs.  Warren.  "There's  cares 
fur  the  livin'  as  well  as  fur  the  dead ;  you  'd 
ought  to  take  care  o'  yoreself :  first  thing 
you  know  you  '11  be  flat  o'  yore  own  back." 

A  few  other  women  joined  their  voices  in 
the  general  protest  against  staying.  It  was 
for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been  anxious 
to  see  the  poor  woman  out  of  the  world, 
and,  now  that  they  knew  her  to  be  gone,  had 
no  further  concern  for  her.  All  had  some- 


4          The  Uncalled 

thing  to  do,  either  husbands  to  get  off  to 
work  or  labours  of  their  own  to  perform. 

A  little  woman  with  a  weak  voice  finally 
changed  the  current  of  talk  by  saying, 
Cf  Well,  I  guess  I  kin  stay :  there 's  some 
cold  things  at  home  that  my  man  kin  git, 
an*  the  childern  '11  git  off  to  school  by  them 
selves.  They  '11  all  understand." 

"That's  right,  Melissy  Davis,"  said  a 
hard-faced  woman  who  had  gone  on  about 
some  work  she  was  doing,  without  taking 
any  notice  of  the  clamorous  deserters,  "  an' 
I  '11  stay  with  you.  I  guess  I  've  got  about 
as  much  work  to  do  as  any  of  you,"  she 
added,  casting  a  cold  glance  at  the  women 
who  were  now  wrapped  up  and  ready  to  de 
part,  "  an'  I  was  n't  so  much  of  a  friend  of 
Margar't's  as  some  of  you,  neither,  but  on 
an  occasion  like  this  I  know  what  dooty  is." 
And  Miss  Hester  Prime  closed  her  lips  in  a 
very  decided  fashion. 

"  Oh,  well,  some  folks  is  so  well  off  in 
money  an'  time  that  they  kin  afford  to  be 
liberal  with  a  pore  creature  like  Margar't, 
even  ef  they  did  n't  have  nothin'  to  do  with 
her  before  she  died." 

Miss  Prime's  face  grew  sterner  as  she 
replied,  "  Margar't  Brent  was  n't  my  kind 


The  Uncalled          5 

durin'  life,  an*  that  I  make  no  bones  o'  sayin' 
here  an'  now;  but  when  she  got  down  on 
the  bed  of  affliction  I  done  what  I  could  fur 
her  along  with  the  best  of  you  ;  an'  you, 
Mandy  Warren,  that 's  seen  me  here  day  in 
an'  day  out,  ought  to  be  the  last  one  to 
deny  that.  Furthermore,  I  did  n't  advise 
her  to  leave  her  husband,  as  some  people 
did,  but  I  did  put  in  a  word  an'  help  her  to 
work  so  's  to  try  to  keep  her  straight  after 
wards,  though  it  ain't  fur  me  to  be  a-braggin' 
about  what  I  done,  even  to  offset  them  that 
did  n't  do  nothin'." 

This  parting  shot  told,  and  Mrs.  Warren 
flared  up  like  a  wax  light.  "It 's  a  wonder 
yore  old  tracts  an'  the  help  you  give  her 
did  n't  keep  her  sober  sometimes." 

"  Ef  I  could  n't  keep  her  sober,  I  was  n't 
one  o'  them  that  set  an'  took  part  with  her 
when  she  was  gittin'  drunk." 

"  'Sh  !  'sh  !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Davis  :  "  ef  I 
was  you  two  I  would  n't  go  on  that  way. 
Margar't's  dead  an'  gone  now,  an'  what  's 
past  is  past.  Pore  soul,  she  had  a  hard 
enough  time  almost  to  drive  her  to  destruc 
tion  ;  but  it 's  all  over  now,  an'  we  ought  to 
put  her  away  as  peaceful  as  possible." 

The  women  who  had  all  been  in  such  a 


6          The  Uncalled 

hurry  had  waited  at  the  prospect  of  an  alter 
cation,  but,  seeing  it  about  to  blow  over,  they 
bethought  themselves  of  their  neglected 
homes  and  husbands,  and  passed  out  behind 
the  still  irate  Mrs.  Warren,  who  paused  long 
enough  in  earshot  to  say, "  I  hope  that  spite 
ful  old  maid  '11  have  her  hands  full." 

The  scene  within  the  room  which  the 
women  had  just  left  was  anything  but  an  in 
viting  one.  The  place  was  miserably  dirty. 
Margaret  had  never  been  a  particularly  neat 
housewife,  even  in  her  well  days.  The  old 
rag  carpet  which  disfigured  the  floor  was 
worn  into  shreds  and  blotched  with  grease,  for 
the  chamber  was  cooking-  and  dining-  as  well 
as  sleeping-room.  A  stove,  red  with  rust, 
struggled  to  send  forth  some  heat.  The 
oily  black  kerosene  lamp  showed  a  sickly 
yellow  flame  through  the  grimy  chimney. 

On  a  pallet  in  one  corner  lay  a  child 
sleeping.  On  the  bed,  covered  with  a  dingy 
sheet,  lay  the  stark  form  out  of  which  the 
miserable  life  had  so  lately  passed. 

The  women  opened  the  blinds,  blew  out 
the  light,  and  began  performing  the  neces 
sary  duties  for  the  dead. 

"  Anyhow,  let  her  body  go  clean  before  her 
Maker,"  said  Miss  Hester  Prime,  severely. 


The  Uncalled          7 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  the  pore  soul, 
Miss  Hester,"  returned  Mrs.  Davis.  "  She 
had  a  hard  time  of  it.  I  knowed  Margar't 
when  she  was  n't  so  low  down  as  in  her  last 
days/' 

u  She  oughtn't  never  to  'a'  left  her  hus 
band." 

"Oh,  ef  you'd  'a'  knowed  him  as  I  did, 
Miss  Hester,  you  would  n't  never  say  that. 
He  was  a  brute :  sich  beatin's  as  he  used  to 
give  her  when  he  was  in  liquor  you  never 
heerd  tell  of." 

"  That  was  hard,  but  as  long  as  he  was  a 
husband  he  was  a  protection  to  her  name."  ' 

"  True  enough.  Protection  is  a  good 
dish,  but  a  beatin's  a  purty  bitter  sauce  to 
take  with  it." 

"I  wonder  what's  ever  become  of  Brent." 

"  Lord  knows.  No  one  'ain't  heerd  hide 
ner  hair  o'  him  sence  he  went  away  from 
town.  People  thought  that  he  was  a-hangin* 
around  tryin'  to  git  a  chance  to  kill  Mag 
after  she  got  her  divorce  from  him,  but  all 
at  once  he  packed  off  without  savin'  a  word 
to  anybody.  I  guess  he 's  drunk  himself  to 
death  by  this  time." 

When  they  had  finished  with  Margaret, 
the  women  set  to  work  to  clean  up  the  house. 


8          The  Uncalled 

The  city  physician  who  had  attended  the 
dead  woman  in  her  last  hours  had  reported 
the  case  for  county  burial,  and  the  under 
taker  was  momentarily  expected. 

"  We  '11  have  to  git  the  child  up  an*  git 
his  pallet  out  of  the  way,  so  the  floor  kin  be 
swept." 

"  A  body  hates  to  wake  the  pore  little 
motherless  dear." 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  child  is  better  off 
without  her  example." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Hester,  perhaps  ;  but  a 
mother,  after  all,  is  a  mother." 

"  Even  sich  a  one  as  this  ?  " 

"  Kven  sirb  a  one  a.s  this." 

Mrs.  Davis  bent  over  the  child,  and  was 
about  to  lift  him,  when  he  stirred,  opened 
his  eyes,  and  sat  up  of  his  own  accord.  He 
appeared  about  five  years  of  age.  He  might 
have  been  a  handsome  child,  but  hardship 
and  poor  feeding  had  taken  away  his  infantile 
plumpness,  and  he  looked  old  and  haggard, 
even  beneath  the  grime  on  his  face.  The 
kindly  woman  lifted  him  up  and  began  to 
dress  him. 

"  I  want  my  mamma,"  said  the  child. 

Neither  of  the  women  answered  :  there 
was  something  tugging  at  their  heart-strings 
that  killed  speech. 


The  Uncalled          9 

Finally  the  little  woman  said,  "  I  don't 
know  ef  we  did  right  to  let  him  sleep  through 
it  all,  but  then  it  was  sich  a  horrible  death." 

When  she  had  finished  dressing  the  child, 
she  led  him  to  the  bed  and  showed  him  his 
mother's  face.  He  touched  it  with  his  little 
grimy  finger,  and  then,  as  if,  young  as  he 
was,  the  realization  of  his  bereavement  had 
fully  come  to  him,  he  burst  into  tears. 

Miss  Hester  turned  her  face  away,  but 
Mrs.  Davis  did  not  try  to  conceal  her  tears. 
She  took  the  boy  up  in  her  arms  and  com 
forted  him  the  best  she  could. 

"Don't  cry,  Freddie,"  she  said;  "don't 
cry  ;  mamma 's  —  restin'.  Ef  you  don't  care, 
Miss  Prime,  I  '11  take  him  over  home  an' 
give  him  some  breakfast,  an'  leave  him  with 
my  oldest  girl,  Sophy.  She  kin  stay  out  o' 
school  to-day.  I  '11  bring  you  back  a  cup  o' 
tea,  too  ;  that  is,  ef  you  ain't  afeared  —  " 

"  Afeared  o'  what  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Prime,  turning  on  her. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Miss  Hester,  bein' 
left  alone  —  ah  —  some  people  air  funny 
about  —  " 

"  I  'm  no  fool,  Melissy  Davis.  Take  the 
child  an'  go  on." 

Miss  Hester  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  be 


io        The  Uncalled 

sharp.  It  covered  the  weakness  to  which 
she  had  almost  given  way  at  sight  of  the 
child's  grief.  She  bustled  on  about  her  work 
when  Mrs.  Davis  was  gone,  but  her  brow 
was  knit  into  a  wrinkle  of  deep  thought. 
"  A  mother  is  a  mother,  after  all,"  she 
mused  aloud,  "  even  sich  a  one." 


CHAPTER   II 

FOR  haste,  for  unadulterated  despatch, 
commend  me  to  the  county  burying. 
The  body  politic  is  busy  and  has  no  time  to 
waste  on  an  inert  human  body.  It  does  its 
duty  to  its  own  interest  and  to  the  pauper 
dead  when  the  body  is  dropped  with  all 
celerity  into  the  ground.  The  county  is 
philosophical :  it  says,  "  Poor  devil,  the  world 
was  unkind  to  him  :  he  '11  be  glad  to  get  out 
of  it :  we  '11  be  doing  him  a  favour  to  put 
him  at  the  earliest  moment  out  of  sight  and 
sound  and  feeling  of  the  things  that  wounded 
him.  Then,  too,  the  quicker  the  cheaper, 
and  that  will  make  it  easier  on  the  tax 
payers."  This  latter  is  so  comforting  !  So 
the  order  is  written,  the  funeral  is  rushed 
through,  and  the  county  goes  home  to  its 
dinner,  feeling  well  satisfied  with  itself,  —  so 
potent  are  the  consolations  of  philosophy  at 
so  many  hundreds  per  year. 

To  this  general  order  poor  Margaret's 
funeral  proved  no  exception.  The  morning 
after  her  decease  she  was  shrouded  and  laid 


12        The  Uncalled 

in  her  cheap  pine  coffin  to  await  those  last 
services  which,  in  a  provincial  town,  are  the 
meed  of  saint  and  sinner  alike.  The  room 
in  which  she  lay  was  very  clean,  —  unnatur 
ally  so,  —  from  the  attention  of  Miss  Prime. 
Clean  muslin  curtains  had  been  put  up  at 
the  windows,  and  the  one  cracked  mirror 
which  the  house  possessed  had  been  covered 
with  white  cloth.  The  lace-like  carpet  had 
been  taken  off  the  floor,  and  the  boards  had 
been  scrubbed  white.  The  little  stove  in  the 
corner,  now  cold,  was  no  longer  red  with 
rust.  In  a  tumbler  on  a  little  table  at  Mar 
garet's  head  stood  the  only  floral  offering 
that  gave  a  touch  of  tenderness  to  the  grim 
scene,  —  a  bunch  of  home-grown  scarlet  and 
white  geraniums.  Some  woman  had  robbed 
her  wintered  room  of  this  bit  of  brightness 
for  the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  perfume 
of  the  flowers  mingled  heavily  with  the  faint 
odour  which  pervades  the  chamber  of  death, 
—  an  odour  that  is  like  the  reminiscence  of 
sorrow. 

Like  a  spirit  of  order,  with  solemn  face 
and  quiet  tread,  Miss  Hester  moved  about 
the  room,  placing  one  thing  here,  another 
there,  but  ever  doing  or  changing  something, 
all  with  maidenly  neatness.  What  a  childish 


The  Uncalled        13 

fancy  this  is  of  humanity's,  tiptoeing  and 
whispering  in  the  presence  of  death,  as  if  one 
by  an  incautious  word  or  a  hasty  step  might 
wake  the  sleeper  from  such  deep  repose  ! 

The  service  had  been  set  for  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  One  or  two  women  had 
already  come  in  to  "  sit,"  but  by  half-past  one 
the  general  congregation  began  to  arrive  and 
to  take  their  places.  They  were  mostly  wo 
men.  The  hour  of  the  day  was  partially 
responsible  for  this  ;  but  then  men  do  not  go 
to  funerals  anyway,  if  they  can  help  it.  They 
do  not  revel,  like  their  sisters,  in  the  exquis 
ite  pleasure  of  sorrow.  Most  of  the  women 
had  known  pain  and  loss  themselves,  and 
came  with  ready  sympathy,  willing,  nay, 
anxious  to  be  moved  to  tears.  Some  of  them 
came  dragging  by  one  hand  children,  dressed 
stiffly,  uncomfortably,  and  ludicrously,  —  a 
medley  of  soiled  ribbons,  big  collars,  wide 
bows,  and  very  short  knickerbockers.  The 
youngsters  were  mostly  curious  and  ill- 
mannered,  and  ever  and  anon  one  had  to  be 
slapped  by  its  mother  into  snivelling  decorum. 
Mrs.  Davis  came  in  with  one  of  her  own 
children  and  leading  the  dead  woman's  boy 
by  the  hand.  At  this  a  buzz  of  whispered 
conversation  began. 


14       The  Uncalled 

"  Pore  little  dear,"  said  one,  as  she  settled 
the  bow  more  securely  under  her  own  boy's 
sailor  collar,  — "  pore  little  dear,  he  's  all 
alone  in  the  world." 

"  I  never  did  see  in  all  my  life  sich  a 
young  child  look  so  sad,"  said  another. 

"  H'm  !  "  put  in  a  third  ;  "  in  this  world 
pore  motherless  childern  has  plenty  o'  reason 
to  look  sad,  I  tell  you." 

She  brushed  the  tears  off  the  cheek  of  her 
little  son  whom  she  had  slapped  a  moment 
before.  She  was  tender  now. 

One  woman  bent  down  and  whispered  into 
her  child's  ear  as  she  pointed  with  one  cotton- 
gloved  finger,  "  See,  Johnny,  see  little  Fred 
die,  there ;  he  'ain't  got  no  mother  no  more. 
Pore  little  Freddie  !  ain't  you  sorry  fur  him  ?  " 
The  child  nodded,  and  gazed  with  open-eyed 
wonder  at  "  little  Freddie  "  as  if  he  were  of 
a  new  species. 

The  curtains,  stirred  by  the  blast  through 
the  loose  windows,  flapped  dismally,  and  the 
people  drew  their  wraps  about  them,  for  the 
fireless  room  was  cold.  Steadily,  insistently, 
the  hive-like  drone  of  conversation  mur 
mured  on. 

"  I  wonder  who 's  a-goin*  to  preach  the 
funeral,"  asked  one. 


The  Uncalled        15 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Simpson,  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  of  course :  she  used  to  go  to  that 
church  years  ago,  you  know,  before  she 
backslid.'* 

"That's  jest  what  I've  allus  said  about 
people  that  falls  from  grace.  You  know  the 
last  state  o'  that  man  is  worse  than  the  first." 

"Ah,  that's  true  enough." 

"It's  a-puttin'  yore  hand  to  the  plough 
share  an'  then  turnin'  back." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  preacher  '11  have  to 
say  fur  her.  It's  a  mighty  hard  case  to 
preach  about." 

"  I  'm  wonderin'  too  what  he  '11  say,  an' 
where  he  '11  preach  her." 

"Well,  it's  hard  to  tell.  You  know  the 
Methodists  believe  that  there  's  c  salvation 
to  be  found  between  the  stirrup  an'  the 
ground.' ' 

"  It's  a  mighty  comfortin'  doctern,  too." 

"  An'  then  they  do  say  that  she  left  some 
dyin'  testimony  ;  though  I  'ain't  never  heerd 
tell  the  straight  of  it." 

"  He  can't  preach  her  into  heaven,  o' 
course,  after  her  life.  Leastways,  it  don't 
hardly  seem  like  it  would  be  right  an' 
proper." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  he  kin  preach  her 


1 6        The  Uncalled 

into  hell,  neither.  After  a  woman  has  gone 
through  all  that  pore  Margar't  has,  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  Lord  ought  to  give  her  some 
consideration,  even  if  men  don't." 

"  I  do  declare,  Seely  Matthews,  with  yore 
free  thinkin'  an'  free  speakin ',  you  're  put' 
nigh  a  infidel." 

"  No,  I  ain't  no  infidel,  neither,  but  I  ain't 
one  o'  them  that  sings,  c  When  all  thy  mer 
cies,  O  my  God,'  and  thinks  o'  the  Lord  as 
if  He  was  a  great  big  cruel  man." 

"Well,  I  don't  neither;  but  —  " 

"'Sh!  'sh!" 

The  woman's  declaration  of  principle  was 
cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  the  minister,  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Simpson.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt 
man,  in  a  coat  of  rusty  black.  His  hair,  of 
an  indeterminate  colour,  was  slightly  mixed 
with  grey.  A  pair  of  bright  grey  eyes 
looked  out  from  underneath  bushy  eyebrows. 
His  lips  were  close  set.  His  bony  hands 
were  large  and  ungainly.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Simpson  had  been  a  carpenter  before  he  was 
"called."  He  went  immediately  to  the 
stand  where  lay  the  Bible  and  hymn-book. 
He  was  followed  by  a  man  who  had  entered 
with  him,  —  a  man  with  soft  eyes  and  a 
kindly  face.  He  was  as  tall  as  the  pastor, 


The  Uncalled        17 

and  slender,  but  without  the  other's  gaunt- 
ness.  He  was  evidently  a  church  official  of 
some  standing. 

With  strange  inappropriateness,  the  preach 
er  selected  and  gave  out  the  hymn : 

Sister,  thou  wast  mild  and  lovely, 
Gentle  as  the  summer's  breeze. 

With  some  misgivings,  it  was  carried 
through  in  the  wavering  treble  of  the  women 
and  the  straggling  bass  of  the  few  men  :  then 
the  kindly-faced  man,  whom  the  preacher 
addressed  as  "  Brother  Hodges,"  knelt  and 
offered  prayer.  The  supplication  was  very 
tender  and  childlike.  Even  by  the  light  of 
faith  he  did  not  seek  to  penetrate  the  veil  of 
divine  intention,  nor  did  he  throw  his  javelin 
of  prayer  straight  against  the  Deity's  armour 
of  eternal  reserve.  He  left  all  to  God,  as  a 
child  lays  its  burden  at  its  father's  feet,  and 
many  eyes  were  moist  as  the  people  rose 
from  their  knees. 

The  sermon  was  a  noisy  and  rather  incon 
sequential  effort.  The  preacher  had  little 
to  say,  but  he  roared  that  little  out  in 
a  harsh,  unmusical  voice  accompanied  by 
much  slapping  of  his  hands  and  pounding  of 
the  table.  Towards  the  end  he  lowered  his 


1 8       The  Uncalled 

voice  and  began  to  play  upon  the  feelings  of 
his  willing  hearers,  and  when  he  had  won 
his  meed  of  sobs  and  tears,  when  he  had 
sufficiently  probed  old  wounds  and  made 
them  bleed  afresh,  when  he  had  conjured  up 
dead  sorrows  from  the  grave,  when  he  had 
obscured  the  sun  of  heavenly  hope  with  the 
vapours  of  earthly  grief,  he  sat  down, 
satisfied. 

The  people  went  forward,  some  curiously, 
some  with  sympathy,  to  look  their  last  on 
the  miserable  dead.  Mrs.  Davis  led  the 
weeping  child  forward  and  held  him  up  for 
a  last  gaze  on  his  mother's  face.  The  poor 
geraniums  were  wiped  and  laid  by  the  dead 
hands,  and  then  the  undertaker  glided  in 
like  a  stealthy,  black-garmented  ghost.  He 
screwed  the  pine-top  down,  and  the  coffin 
was  borne  out  to  the  hearse.  He  clucked 
to  his  horses,  and,  with  Brother  Hodges  and 
the  preacher  in  front,  and  Mrs.  Davis,  Miss 
Prime,  and  the  motherless  boy  behind,  the 
little  funeral  train  moved  down  the  street 
towards  the  graveyard,  a  common  but  pa 
thetic  spectacle. 

Mrs.  Warren  had  remained  behind  to 
attend  to  the  house.  She  watched  the  short 
procession  out  of  sight.  "  I  guess  Margar't 


The  Uncalled        19 

did  n't  have  no  linen  worth  havin',"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  but  I  '11  jest  look."  And  look 
she  did,  but  without  success.  In  disappoint 
ment  and  disgust  she  went  out  and  took  the 
streamer  of  dusty  black  and  dingy  white 
crape  from  the  door  where  it  had  fluttered, 
and,  bringing  it  in,  laid  it  on  the  empty 
trestles,  that  the  undertaker  might  find  it 
when  he  came  for  them.  She  took  the 
cloth  off  the  mirror,  and  then,  with  one 
searching  look  around  to  see  that  she  had 
missed  nothing  worth  taking,  she  went  out, 
closing  and  locking  the  door  behind  her. 

"  I  guess  I  'm  as  much  entitled  to  any 
thing  Mag  had  as  any  one  else,"  said  Mrs. 
Warren. 


CHAPTER   III 

BY  common  consent,  and  without  the 
formality  of  publication  or  proclama 
tion,  the  women  had  agreed  to  meet  on  the 
day  after  the  funeral  for  the  purpose  of  dis 
cussing  what  was  best  to  be  done  with  the  boy 
Fred.  From  the  moment  that  Mrs.  Davis 
had  taken  charge  of  him,  he  had  shown  a  love 
for  her  and  confidence  in  her  care  that  had 
thoroughly  touched  that  good  woman's 
heart.  She  would  have  liked  nothing  better 
than  to  keep  him  herself.  But  there  were 
already  five  hungry  little  Davises,  and  any 
avoidable  addition  to  the  family  was  out  of 
the  question.  To  be  sure,  in  the  course  of 
time  there  were  two  more  added  to  the 
number,  but  that  was  unavoidable,  and  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  The  good  woman 
sat  looking  at  the  boy  the  night  after  his 
mother  had  been  laid  away.  He  sat  upon 
the  floor  among  her  own  children,  playing 
in  the  happy  forgetfulness  of  extreme  youth. 
But  to  the  mother's  keen  eye  there  was  still 


The  Uncalled        21 

a  vague  sadness  in  his  bearing.  Involunta 
rily,  the  scene  and  conditions  were  changed, 
and,  instead  of  poor  Margaret,  she  herself 
had  passed  away  and  was  lying  out  there  in 
a  new-made  grave  in  bleak  and  dreary 
Woodland.  She  thought  how  her  own 
bairns  would  be  as  motherless  and  forlorn  as 
the  child  before  her,  and  yet  not  quite, 
either,  for  they  had  a  father  who  loved  them 
in  his  own  quiet  undemonstrative  way. 
This  should  have  consoled  her  in  the  sorrows 
she  had  conjured  up,  but,  like  a  woman,  she 
thought  of  the  father  helpless  and  lonely 
when  she  had  gone,  with  the  children  hud 
dled  cheerlessly  about  him,  and  a  veil  of 
tears  came  between  her  and  the  youngsters 
on  the  floor.  With  a  great  rush  of  tender 
ness,  she  went  and  picked  the  motherless 
boy  up  and  laid  his  head  on  her  breast. 

"  Pore  Freddie/'  she  said,  "  I  wish  you 
could  stay  here  all  the  time  and  play  with 
the  other  little  ones." 

The  child  looked  up  at  her  with  wonder 
ing  eyes.  "  I  kin  stay  till  mamma  comes 
back,"  he  answered. 

"  But,  Freddie  dear,  mamma  won't  come 
back  any  more.  She  's  "  —  the  woman  hes 
itated —  "  she  's  in  heaven." 


22        The  Uncalled 

"  I  want  my  mamma  to  come  back," 
moaned  the  child.  "I  don't  want  her  to 
stay  in  heaven." 

"  But  you  must  n't  cry,  Freddie  ;  an',  some 
day,  you  kin  go  an'  see  mamma." 

The  child's  curiosity  got  the  better  of  his 
grief.  He  asked,  "Is  heaven  far,  Mis' 
Davis  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear,  awful  far,"  she  answered. 
But  she  was  wrong. 


.  heart  and  tender-hand- 


woman. 

The  "child's  head  drooped,  and  he  drowsed 
in  her  arms. 

"  Put  him  to  bed,  Melissy,  —  pore  little 
fellow,"  said  her  husband  in  husky  tones. 
He  had  been  listening  and  watching  them 
around  the  edge  of  his  paper.  The  child 
slept  on,  while  the  woman  undressed  him 
and  laid  him  in  the  bed. 

On  the  morrow  the  women  dropped  in 
one  by  one,  until  a  half-dozen  or  more  were 
there,  to  plan  the  boy's  future.  They  were 
all  poor,  and  most  of  them  had  families  of 
their  own.  But  all  hoped  that  there  might 
be  some  plan  devised  whereby  Margaret's 
boy  might  find  a  refuge  without  going  to  the 
orphans'  asylum,  an  institution  which  is  the 


The  Uncalled        23 

detestation  of  women.  Mrs.  Davis,  in  ex 
pressing  her  feelings,  expressed  those  of  all 
the  others  :  "  I  hate  so  to  think  of  the  pore 
little  feller  goin'  to  one  o'  them  childern's 
homes.  The  boys  goin'  around  in  them  there 
drab  clothes  o'  theirs  allus  look  like  prisoners 
to  me,  an'  they  ain't  much  better  off." 

"An'  then  childern  do  learn  so  much 
weekedness  in  them  places  from  the  older 
ones,"  put  in  another. 

"  Oh,  as  fur  that  matter,  he  '11  learn  devil 
ment  soon  enough  anywhere,"  snapped  Mrs. 
Warren,  "  with  that  owdacious  father  o'  his 
before  him.  I  would  n't  take  the  child  by 
no  means,  though  his  mother  an'  me  was 
friends,  fur  blood  's  bound  to  tell,  an'  with 
sich  blood  as  he 's  got  in  him  I  don't  know 
what  he  '11  come  to,  an'  I  'm  shore  I  don't 
want  to  be  a-raisin'  no  gallus-birds." 

The  women  felt  rather  relieved  that  Mrs. 
Warren  so  signally  washed  her  hands  of 
Freddie.  That  was  one  danger  he  had  es 
caped.  The  woman  in  question  had,  as  she 
said,  been  a  close  friend  of  Margaret's,  and, 
as  such,  an  aider  in  her  habits  of  intemper 
ance.  It  had  been  apprehended  that  her 
association  with  the  mother  might  lead  her 
to  take  the  child. 


24       The  Uncalled 

"  I  'd  like  to  take  Freddie  myself,"  Mrs. 
Davis  began  again,  "  but  with  my  five,  an* 
John  out  o'  work  half  the  time,  another 
mouth  to  feed  an'  another  pair  o'  feet  to 
cover  would  mean  a  whole  lot.  Though  I 
do  think  that  ef  I  was  dead  an'  my  childern 
was  sent  to  that  miserable  orphans'  home, 
I  'd  turn  over  in  my  grave." 

"It's  a  pity  we  don't  know  some  good 
family  that  'ain't  got  no  childern  that  'ud 
take  him  an'  bring  him  up  as  their  own  son," 
said  a  little  woman  who  took  The  Hearth- 
side. 

"  Sich  people  ain't  growin'  on  trees  no 
place  about  Dexter,"  Mrs.  Warren  sniffed. 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  I  've  read  of  sich  things. 
Ef  the  child  was  in  a  book  it  'ud  happen  to 
him,  but  he  ain't.  He  's  a  flesh  and  blood 
youngster  an*  a-livin'  in  Dexter." 

"  You  could  n't  give  us  no  idee  what  to 
do,  could  you,  Mis'  Austin  ?  " 

"  Lord  love  you,  Mis'  Davis,  I  've  jest 
been  a-settin'  here  purty  nigh  a-thinkin*  my 
head  off,  but  I  'ain't  seen  a  gleam  of  light 
yit.  You  know  how  I  feel  an'  jest  how  glad 
I  'd  be  to  do  something,  but  then  my  man 
growls  about  the  three  we  've  got." 

"  That 's  jest  the  way  with  my  man,"  said 


The  Uncalled        25 

the  little  woman  who  took  her  ideas  of  life 
from  the  literature  in  The  Hearthside.  "He 
allus  says  that  pore  folks  ought  n't  to  have 
so  many  childern." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  blessin'  that  Margar't  did  n't 
have  no  more,  fur  goodness  knows  it's  hard 
enough  disposin'  o'  this  one." 

Just  then  a  tap  came  at  Mrs.  Davis's  door, 
and  she  opened  it  to  admit  Miss  Hester 
Prime. 

"  I  'm  ruther  late  gittin'  here,"  said  the 
new-comer,  "  but  I  've  been  a-neglectin'  my 
work  so  in  the  last  couple  o'  days  that  I  've 
had  a  power  of  it  to  do  to-day  to  ketch  up." 

"  Oh,  we  're  so  glad  you  've  come  !  "  said 
one  of  the  women.  "  Mebbe  you  kin  help 
us  out  of  our  fix.  We  're  in  sich  a  fix  about 
little  Freddie." 

u  We  don't  want  to  send  the  pore  little 
dear  to  the  childern's  home,"  broke  in 
another. 

"  It 's  sich  an  awful  place  fur  young 
childern—" 

"  An'  they  do  look  so  pitiful  —  " 

"  An'  learn  so  much  wcekedness." 

And,  as  is  the  manner  of  women  in  coun 
cil,  they  all  began  talking  at  once,  pouring 
into  the  new-comer's  ears  all  the  suggestions 


26        The  Uncalled 

and  objections,  hopes  and  fears,  that  had 
been  made  or  urged  during  their  conference. 

To  it  all  Miss  Hester  listened,  and  there 
was  a  soft  glow  on  her  face  the  while  ;  but 
then  she  had  been  walking,  which  may 
account  for  the  flush.  The  child,  all  uncon 
scious  that  his  destiny  was  being  settled,  was 
playing  with  two  of  the  little  Davises  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  The  three  days  of 
good  food,  good  treatment,  and  pleasant  sur 
roundings  had  told  on  him,  and  he  looked 
less  forlorn  and  more  like  the  child  that  he 
was.  He  was  clean.  His  brown  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  amusement,  and  his  brown 
hair  was  brushed  up  into  the  damp  "  roach  " 
so  dear  to  a  woman's  heart.  He  was,  thus, 
a  far  less  forbidding  sight  than  on  the  morn 
ing  of  his  mother's  death,  when,  dingy  and 
haggard,  he  rose  from  his  dirty  pallet.  As 
she  listened  to  the  varied  remarks  of  her 
associates,  Miss  Hester  allowed  her  eyes  to 
wander  to  the  child's  face,  and  for  a  moment 
a  tenderer  expression  grew  about  her  lips, 
but  in  an  instant  it  was  gone,  and,  as  if  she 
had  been  near  committing  herself  to  folly, 
she  made  amends  by  drawing  her  countenance 
into  more  than  its  usually  severe  lines. 

Mrs.  Warren,  who  was  always  ready  with 


The  Uncalled        27 

a  stab,  and  who  had  not  forgotten  her  en 
counter  of  two  days  ago,  spoke  up  with  a 
little  malicious  laugh.  "  Miss  Hester  'ain't 
got  no  family :  mebbe  she  might  take  the 
child.  'Pears  like  she  ought  to  be  fond  o' 
childern." 

Mrs.  Davis  immediately  came  to  the 
rescue.  "  We  don't  expect  no  sich  thing  of 
Miss  Hester.  She 's  never  been  around 
childern,  an'  don't  know  nothin'  about  takin' 
keer  o'  them  ;  an'  boys  air  hard  to  manage, 
anyhow." 

"  Oh,  I  should  think  Miss  Hester  could 
manage  'most  anything,"  was  the  sneering 
rejoinder. 

The  women  were  aghast  at  such  insolence. 
They  did  n't  know  what  the  effect  might  be 
on  Miss  Prime.  They  looked  at  her  in 
alarm.  Her  cold  grey  eye  impaled  Mrs. 
Warren  for  an  instant  only,  and  then,  pay 
ing  no  more  attention  to  her,  she  said 
quietly,  "  I  was  thinkin'  this  whole  matter 
over  while  I  was  finishin'  up  my  work  to 
come  here,  an',  says  I  to  myself, (  Now  there  's 
Melissy  Davis,  —  she 's  the  very  one  that 
'ud  be  a  mother  to  that  child,'  says  I,  c  an' 
she  'd  bring  him  up  right  as  a  child  should 
be  brought  up.'  I  don't  know  no  more 


28       The  Uncalled 

mannerly,  nice-appearin'  childern  in  this 
neighbourhood,  or  the  whole  town,  fur  that 
matter,  than  Melissy's — " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hester  ! "  faltered  Mrs.  Davis. 

But  Miss  Prime  went  on,  unheeding  the 
interruption.  "  Thinks  I,  c  Melissy's  got  a 
houseful  already,  an'  she  can't  take  another.' 
Then  you  comes  into  my  mind,  Mis'  Austin, 
an'  says  I,  (  La  me  !  she's  got  three  herself, 
an'  is  young  yit ;  she  '11  have  her  hands  full 
to  look  after  her  own  family.'  Well,  I 
thought  of  you  all,  an'  some  of  you  had 
families,  an'  some  of  you  had  to  go  out  fur 
day's  work  ;  an'  then  there  's  some  people's 
hands  I  would  n't  want  to  see  the  child  fall 
into."  (This  with  an  annihilating  glance 
in  Mrs.  Warren's  direction.)  "  You  know 
what  the  Bible  says  about  the  sins  of  the 
father  ;  well,  that  child  needs  proper  raisin' : 
so  in  this  way  the  Lord  showed  it  to  me 
that  it  was  my  dooty  to  take  up  the  burden 
myself." 

First  there  was  an  absolute  silence  of 
utter  astonishment,  and  then,  "  Oh,  Miss 
Hester ! "  broke  from  a  full  chorus  of 
voices. 

"  You  don't  reelly  mean  it,  Miss  Hester  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Davis. 


The  Uncalled        2,9 

"  I  do  that ;  but  I  want  you  all  to  under 
stand  that  it  ain't  a  matter  of  pleasure  or 
desire  with  me ;  it 's  dooty.  Ef  I  see  a 
chance  to  save  a  soul  from  perdition  an' 
don't  take  it,  I  am  responsible,  myself,  to 
the  Lord  for  that  soul." 

The  women  were  almost  too  astounded 
to  speak,  Mrs.  Warren  not  less  than  the 
rest  of  them.  She  had  made  her  suggestion 
in  derision,  and  here  it  was  being  acted  upon 
in  sober  earnest.  She  was  entirely  routed. 

"Now,  Melissy,  ef  there  ain't  no  one  that 
disagrees  with  me,  you  might  as  well  pack 
up  what  few  things  the  child  has,  an'  I  '11 
take  him  along." 

No  one  objected,  and  the  few  things  were 
packed  up.  "  Come,  Freddie/'  said  Mrs. 
Davis  tremulously,  "  get  on  yore  hat." 
The  child  obeyed.  "  You  're  a-goin'  to  be 
Miss  Hester's  little  boy  now.  You  must 
be  good." 

Miss  Prime  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
but  the  child  drew  back  and  held  to  his  pro 
tectress's  skirt.  A  hurt  expression  came 
into  the  spinster's  face.  It  was  as  if  the 
great  sacrifice  she  was  making  was  being 
belittled  and  rejected  by  a  child.  Mrs. 
Warren  laughed  openly. 


30        The  Uncalled 

"  Come,  Freddie,  be  nice  now,  dear ;  go 
with  Miss  Hester." 

"  I  want  to  stay  with  you,"  cried  the  child. 

"  Pore  little  dear  !  "  chorussed  the  women. 

"But  Mis'  Davis  can't  keep  the  little 
boy ;  now  he  must  go  with  Miss  Prime,  an' 
sometimes  he  kin  come  an'  see  Mis'  Davis 
an'  play  with  John  an'  Harriet.  Won't 
that  be  nice  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  stay  with  you." 

"  Come,  Frederick,"  said  Miss  Prime. 

"  Go  now,  like  a  good  boy,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Davis.  "  Here  's  a  copper  fur  you  ; 
take  it  in  yore  little  hand,  —  that 's  a  man. 
Now  kiss  me  good-bye.  Kiss  John  an' 
Harriet." 

The  child,  seeing  that  he  must  go,  had 
given  up  resistance,  and,  doing  as  he  was 
bidden,  took  Miss  Prime's  hand,  sobbingly. 
Some  of  us  do  not  learn  so  soon  to  bow  to 
the  inevitable. 

"  Good-bye,  ladies.  I  must  git  back  to 
my  work,"  said  Miss  Hester. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,  Miss  Hester,"  came 
the  echo. 

The  moment  the  door  closed  behind  her 
and  her  charge,  there  was  a  volley  of 
remarks  : 


The  Uncalled        31 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  she  '11  be  good  to  him." 
"  I  wonder  how  she  '11  manage  him." 
"  Pore  child,  he  did  n't  want  to  go  at  all." 
"  Who  'd  have  thought  it  of  Miss  Hester  ?  " 
"  I  wish  I  could  have  kept  him  myself," 
said  Mrs.    Davis,   tearfully.     "  It  hurt   my 
heart  to  see  him  cling  to  me  so." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Melissy  Davis  ;  you  Ve 
done  yore  whole  dooty  as  well  as  you  could." 
Mrs.  Warren  rose  and  put  her  shawl  over 
her  head  preparatory  to  going.  "  As  fur 
my  part,"  she  said,  "  I  'd  'a'  ruther  seen 
that  child  in  the  childern's  home,  devilment 
or  no  devilment,  than  where  he  is.  He 
won't  dare  to  breathe  from  this  hour  on." 
The  women  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  Mrs.  Davis  said,  "  Well,  Miss  Hester  's 
well-meanin'.' 


CHAPTER   IV 

AT  the  top  of  the  mean  street  on  which 
Margaret's  house  was  situated,  and 
looking  down  upon  its  meaner  neighbours  in 
much  the  same  way  that  its  mistress  looked 
upon  the  denizens  of  the  street,  stood  Miss 
Prime's  cottage.  It  was  not  on  the  mean 
street,  —  it  would  have  disdained  to  be,  — 
but  sat  exactly  facing  it  in  prim  watchfulness 
over  the  unsavoury  thoroughfare  which  ran 
at  right  angles.  The  cottage  was  one  and  a 
half  stories  in  height,  and  the  upper  half- 
story  had  two  windows  in  front  that  looked 
out  like  a  pair  of  accusing  eyes.  It  was 
painted  a  dull  lead  colour.  In  summer  the 
front  yard  was  filled  with  flowers,  holly 
hocks,  bachelor's-buttons,  sweet-william,  and 
a  dozen  other  varieties  of  blooms.  But 
they  were  planted  with  such  exactness  and 
straightness  that  the  poor  flowers  looked 
cramped  and  artificial  and  stiff  as  a  party  of 
angular  ladies  dressed  in  bombazine.  Here 
was  no  riot  nor  abandon  in  growth.  Every- 


The  Uncalled        33 

thing  had  its  place,  and  stayed  therein  or 
was  plucked  up. 

"  I  jest  can't  abide  to  see  flowers  growin' 
every  which  way,"  Miss  Prime  used  to 
remark,  "  fur  all  the  world  like  a  neighbour 
hood  with  different  people's  children  traipsin' 
through  everybody  else's  house.  Every 
thing  in  order,  is  my  motto." 

Miss  Hester  had  nearly  arrived  at  her 
fortieth  mile-stone ;  and  she  effected  the 
paradox  of  looking  both  younger  and  older 
than  her  age.  Younger,  because  she  had 
always  taken  excellent  care  of  herself.  Her 
form  had  still  much  of  the  roundness  of 
youth,  and  her  step  was  sprightly  and  firm. 
She  looked  older  than  her  age,  because  of 
the  strong  lines  in  her  face,  the  determined 
set  of  her  lips,  and  the  general  air  of  knowl 
edge  and  self-sufficiency  which  pervaded  her 
whole  being.  Throughout  her  life  she  had 
sacrificed  everything  to  duty,  whether  it  was 
the  yearning  of  her  own  heart  or  the  feelings 
of  those  who  loved  her.  In  the  world 
about  her  she  saw  so  much  of  froth  and 
frivolity  that  she  tried  to  balance  matters  by 
being  especially  staid  and  stern  herself. 
She  did  not  consider  that  in  the  seesaw  of 
life  it  takes  more  than  one  person  to  toss  up 
3 


34       The  Uncalled 

the  weight  of  the  world's  wickedness.  Her 
existence  was  governed  by  rigid  rules,  from 
which  she  never  departed. 

It  is  hard  to  explain  just  what  Miss 
Hester's  position  was  among  the  denizens 
of  the  poorer  quarter.  She  was  liked  and 
disliked,  admired  and  feared.  She  would 
descend  upon  her  victims  with  unasked 
counsel  and  undesired  tracts.  Her  voice 
was  a  trumpet  of  scathing  invective  against 
their  shiftlessness,  their  untidiness,  and  their 
immorality,  but  her  hand  was  as  a  horn  of 
plenty  in  straitened  times,  and  her  presence 
in  sickness  was  a  comfort.  She  made  no 
pretence  to  being  good-hearted  ;  in  fact,  she 
resented  the  term  as  applied  to  herself.  It 
was  all  duty  with  her. 

Up  through  the  now  dismantled  garden 
to  the  prim  cottage  she  led  the  boy  Fred. 
The  child  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  he 
had  left  the  house  of  his  friend.  His  little 
heart  seemed  to  be  suddenly  chilled  within 
him.  Miss  Hester  had  been  equally  silent. 
Her  manner  was  constrained  and  embarrassed. 
She  had,  indeed,  tried  to  find  some  words  of 
soothing  and  encouragement  to  say  to  the 
child,  such  as  she  had  heard  Melissa  Davis 
use ;  but  she  could  not.  They  were  not  a 


The  Uncalled        35 

part  of  her  life's  vocabulary.  Several  times 
she  had  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  sentences 
that  formed  in  her  mind  seemed  so  absurd 
and  awkward  that  she  felt  them  better 
unsaid. 

It  is  true  that  every  natural  woman  has 
the  maternal  instinct,  but  unless  she  has  felt 
the  soft  face  of  a  babe  at  her  breast  and 
looked  down  into  its  eyes  as  it  drew  its  life 
from  her  life,  she  can  know  nothing  of  that 
freemasonry  of  womanhood  which,  by  some 
secret  means  too  deep  and  subtle  for  the 
knowledge  of  outsiders,  wins  the  love  of 
childhood.  It  is  not  so  with  men,  because 
the  childish  mind  does  not  demand  so  much 
of  them,  even  though  they  be  fathers.  To 
be  convinced,  look  about  you  and  see  how 
many  more  bachelors  than  maids  are  favour 
ites  with  children. 

Once  within  the  house,  Miss  Hester  was 
at  an  entire  loss  as  to  what  to  do  with  her 
charge.  She  placed  him  in  a  chair,  where 
he  sat  disconsolately.  She  went  to  the  book 
shelves  and  laid  her  hand  upon  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress;"  then  she  reflected  that  Freddie 
was  just  five  years  old,  and  she  allowed  a 
smile  to  pass  over  her  face.  But  her  per 
plexity  instantly  chased  the  expression  away. 


36        The  Uncalled 

"  How  on  airth  am  I  a-goin*  to  do  any 
work  ?  "  she  asked  herself.  "  I  'm  shore  I 
can't  set  down  an'  tell  that  child  stories  all 
the  time,  as  I  Ve  heerd  tell  o'  folks  doin'. 
What  shall  I  do  with  him  ?  "  She  had  had 
a  vague  idea  that  the  time  of  children  was 
taken  up  in  some  way.  She  knew,  of  course, 
that  they  had  to  be  washed  and  dressed,  that 
they  had  to  eat  three  times  a  day,  and  after 
all  to  sleep ;  but  what  was  to  be  done  with 
them  in  the  mean  time  ? 

"  Oh,"  sighed  the  poor  woman,  "  if  he  was 
only  old  enough  to  go  to  school !  "  The 
wish  was  not  entirely  unmotherly,  as  mother 
hood  goes  in  these  days,  for  it  is  not  an  un 
usual  thing  for  mothers  to  send  their  babes 
off  to  kindergarten  as  soon  as  they  begin  to 
babble,  in  order  to  be  relieved  of  the  respon 
sibility  of  their  care.  But  neither  wishes  nor 
hopes  availed.  It  was  a  living,  present  sit 
uation  with  which  Miss  Hester  had  to  grap 
ple.  Suddenly  she  bethought  herself  that 
children  like  pictures,  and  she  secured  from 
the  shelf  a  copy  of  the  "  Bible  Looking- 
Glass."  This  she  opened  and  spread  out 
on  the  child's  knees.  He  glanced  at  it  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  began  to  turn  the 
leaves,  his  eyes  Riveted  on  the  engravings. 


The  Uncalled        37 

Miss  Hester  congratulated  herself,  and 
slipped  out  to  work.  The  thought  came  to 
her,  of  course,  that  the  novelty  of  "  Bible 
Looking-Glasses  "  could  n't  remain  for  ever, 
but  she  put  the  idea  by  in  scorn.  "  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof/'  The  book 
was  good  while  it  lasted.  It  entertained  the 
child  and  gave  him  valuable  moral  lessons. 
This  was  the  woman's  point  of  view.  To 
Fred  there  was  no  suggestion  of  moral  les 
sons.  It  was  merely  a  lot  of  very  fine  pic 
tures,  and  when  Miss  Prime  had  gone  he 
relaxed  some  of  his  disconsolate  stiffness  and 
entered  into  the  contemplation  of  them  with 
childish  zest.  His  guardian,  however,  did 
not  abandon  her  vigilance,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  she  peeped  through  the  door  from  the 
kitchen,  where  she  was  working,  to  see  how 
her  charge  got  on.  The  sight  which  met 
her  eyes  made  her  nearly  drop  the  cup  which 
she  held  in  her  hand  and  with  which  she  had 
been  measuring  out  flour  for  a  cup-cake. 
With  the  book  spread  out  before  him,  Freddie 
was  lying  flat  on  his  stomach  on  the  floor, 
with  his  little  heels  contentedly  kicking  the 
air.  His  attitude  was  the  expression  of  the 
acme  of  childish  satisfaction. 

Miss  Prime's  idea  of  floors  was  that  they 


38       The  Uncalled 

were  to  be  walked  on,  scrubbed,  measured, 
and  carpeted  ;  she  did  not  remember  in  all 
the  extent  of  her  experience  to  have  seen  one 
used  as  a  reading-desk  before.  But  she  with 
drew  without  a  word  :  the  child  was  quiet, 
and  that  was  much. 

About  this  time,  any  one  observing  the 
cottage  would  have  seen  an  old-fashioned 
phaeton,  to  which  a  plump  old  nag  was 
hitched,  driven  up  to  the  door  and  halted, 
and  a  man  alight  and  enter  at  the  gate.  If 
the  observer  had  been  at  Margaret's  funeral, 
he  would  instantly  have  recognised  the  man 
as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson's  assistant,  Mr. 
Hodges.  The  man  walked  deliberately 
around  to  the  kitchen,  and,  tapping  at  the 
door,  opened  it  without  ceremony  and  went 
in,  calling  out,  "  Miss  Hester,  Miss  Hester, 
I  'm  a-runnin'  right  in  on  you." 

"  I  do  declare,  'Liphalet  Hodges,  you  do 
beat  all  fur  droppin'  in  on  a  body  at  unex 
pected  times." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  're  right.  My  corn- 
in'  's  a  good  deal  like  the  second  comin' 
o'  the  Son  o'  man  '11  be.  I  guess  you  're 
right." 

To  Miss  Prime,  Eliphalet  Hodges  was 
always  unexpected,  although  he  had  been 


The  Uncalled        39 

dropping  in  this  way  before  her  mother  and 
father  died,  twenty  years  gone. 

"Well,  I  'low,  'Liphalet,  that  you've 
heerd  the  news." 

"  There  ain't  no  grass  grows  under  the 
feet  of  the  talkers  in  this  town,  I  tell  you." 

"  Dear  me  !  a  body  can't  turn  aroun'  with 
out  settin'  a  whole  forest  of  tongues  a-wag- 
gin'  every  which  way." 

"  Oh,  well,  Miss  Hester,  we  got  to  'low 
that  to  yore  sex.  The  women  folks  must 
talk." 

"  My  sex  !  It  ain't  my  sex  only:  I  know 
plenty  o'  men  in  this  town  who  air  bigger 
gossips  'n  the  women.  I  '11  warrant  you 
did  n't  git  this  piece  o'  news  from  no 
woman." 

"Well,  mebbe  I  didn't,  but  I  ca'c'late 
there  wa'n't  no  men  there  to  git  it  fust 
hand." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  be  bound  some  o'  the  women 
had  to  go  an'  tell  a  man  the  fust  thing  :  some 
women  can't  git  along  without  the  men." 

"An'  then,  ag'in,  some  of  'em  kin,  Miss 
Hester;  some  of 'em  kin." 

"  You  'd  jest  as  well  start  out  an'  say  what 
you  want  to  say  without  a-beatin'  about  the 
bush.  I  know,  jest  as  well  as  I  know  I  'm 


40        The  Uncalled 

a-livin',  that  you  've  come  to  tell  me  that  I 
was  a  foot  fur  takin'  that  child.  'Liphalet, 
don't  pertend  :  I  know  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  Miss  Hester ;  I  would  n't  dast 
do  nothin'  like  that ;  you  know,  c  He  that 
calleth  his  brother  a  fool  is  in  danger  o' 
hell  fire,'  an'  I  'low  the  Lord  don't  make 
it  no  easier  when  it  happens  to  be  a  sister. 
No,  Miss  Hester,  you  know  yore  own 
business  best,  an'  you  've  got  along  this  fur 
without  bein'  guided  by  people.  I  guess 
you  '11  git  through ;  but  a  child,  Miss 
Hester,  don't  you  think  that  it 's  a  leetle 
bit  resky  ?  " 

"  Resky  ?  I  don't  see  why.  The  child 
ain't  a-goin'  to  eat  me  or  burn  the  house 
down." 

"  No,  no,  —  none  o'  that,  —  I  don't  mean 
that  at  all ;  but  then,  you  see,  you  'ain't 
never  had  no  —  that  is  —  you  'ain't  had 
much  experunce  in  the  bringin'  up  o'  chil- 
dern,  specially  boys." 

"  Much  !  I  'ain't  had  none.  But  I've 
been  brought  up." 

"  That 's  true,  that 's  true,  an'  a  mighty 
good  job  yore  mother  made  of  it,  too.  I 
don't  know  of  no  spryer  or  stirrin'er  woman 
around  here  at  yore  age." 


The  Uncalled        41 

"At  my  age!  'Liphalet,  you  do  talk  as 
ef  I  was  about  fifty." 

"  Well,  ef  I  do,  I  ain't  a  sayin'  what  I 
want  to  say,  so  I  'd  better  hush.  Where  is 
the  little  fellow  ?  " 

For  answer,  Miss  Prime  pushed  the  door 
open  and  bade  him  peep.  Freddie  was  still 
upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  his  book.  The 
man's  face  lighted  up :  he  pulled  the  door  to 
long  enough  to  say,  "  I  tell  you,  Miss  Hes 
ter,  that  boy's  a-goin'  to  make  a  great  reader 
or  a  speaker  or  somethin'.  Jest  look  how 
wrapped  up  he  is  in  that  book." 

"  Well,  I  do  hope  an'  pray  to  goodness 
that  he'll  make  somethin'  better  than  his 
father  ever  made." 

"  Ef  he  don't  under  yore  trainin',  it  '11  be 
because  there  ain't  nothin'  in  him.  —  Come 
here,  Freddie,"  called  Hodges,  pushing  the 
door  open,  and  holding  out  his  hand  with  a 
smile.  The  child  got  up  from  the  floor  and 
came  and  put  his  hand  in  the  outstretched  one. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Hes 
ter.  "  I  tried  my  level  best  to  git  that  child 
to  make  up  with  me,  an'  he  would  n't." 

"It's  jest  like  I  say,  Miss  Hester:  you 
'ain't  never  had  no  experunce  in  raisin'  chil- 
dern." 


42        The  Uncalled 

"  An'  how  many  have  you  ever  raised, 
'Liphalet?" 

The  bachelor  acknowledged  defeat  by  a 
sheepish  smile,  and  turned  again  to  the  child. 
"  You  want  to  go  a-ridin'  in  my  buggy, 
Freddie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  child,  unhesitatingly. 

"All  right;  Uncle  'Liph'll  take  him  out 
fur  a  while.  Git  his  hat  an'  wrap  him  up, 
Miss  Hester,  so  Jack  Frost  can't  ketch  him." 

The  man  stood  smiling  down  into  the 
child's  face :  the  boy,  smiling  back,  tight 
ened  his  grasp  on  the  big  hand.  They  were 
friends  from  that  moment,  Eliphalet  Hodges 
and  Fred. 

They  went  out  to  the  old  phaeton,  with 
Miss  Prime's  parting  injunction  ringing  after 
them,  "  Don't  keep  that  child  out  in  the 
cold  too  long,  'Liphalet,  an'  bring  him  back 
here  croupy." 

"  Oh,  now,  don't  you  trouble  yoreself, 
Miss  Hester :  me  an'  Freddie  air  a-goin'  to 
git  along  all  right.  We  ain't  a-goin'  to 
freeze,  air  we,  Freddie,  boy  ?  Ah,  not  by 
a  long  sight;  not  ef  Uncle  'Liph  knows 
hisself." 

All  the  time  the  genial  man  was  talking, 
he  was  tucking  the  lap-robe  snugly  about 


The  Uncalled       43 


the  child  and  making  him  comfortable. 
Then  he  clucked  to  the  old  mare,  and  they 
rattled  away. 

There  was  a  far-away  look  in  Miss  Prime's 
eyes  as  she  watched  them  till  they  turned 
the  corner  and  were  out  of  sight.  "  I  never 
did  see  sich  a  man  as  'Liphalet  Hodges. 
Why,  a  body  'd  think  that  he  'd  been  married 
an'  raised  a  whole  houseful  o'  childern.  He's 
worse  'n  a  old  hen.  An'  it 's  marvellous  the 
way  Frederick  took  to  him.  Everybody  calls 
the  child  Freddie.  I  must  learn  to  call  him 
that :  it  will  make  him  feel  more  home-like, 
though  it  does  sound  foolish." 

She  went  on  with  her  work,  but  it  was 
interrupted  every  now  and  then  by  strange 
fits  of  abstraction  and  revery,  an  unusual 
thing  for  this  bustling  and  practical  spinster. 
But  then  there  are  few  of  us  but  have  had 
our  hopes  and  dreams,  and  it  would  be  un 
fair  to  think  that  Miss  Hester  was  an  excep 
tion.  For  once  she  had  broken  through  her 
own  discipline,  and  in  her  own  kitchen  was 
spending  precious  moments  in  dreams,  and 
all  because  a  man  and  a  child  had  rattled 
away  in  a  rickety  buggy. 


CHAPTER   V 

"/GOODNESS    gracious,  Mis1  Smith," 

Vj"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Martin,  rushing  ex 
citedly  into  the  house  of  her  next-door 
neighbour,  "you'd  ought  to  seen  what  I  seen 
jest  now." 

"  Do  tell,  Mis'  Martin  !  What  on  airth 
was  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  shore  you  'd  never  guess  in  the 
wide,  wide  world." 

"  An'  I  'm  jest  as  shore  that  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  pester  my  head  tryin'  to  :  so  go  on  an' 
tell  me  what  it  was." 

"  Lawsy  me  !  what  next  '11  happen,  an' 
what  does  things  mean,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you.  Fur  my  part,  I  'ain't 
heerd  what  f  things  '  air  yit."  Mrs.  Smith 
was  getting  angry. 

"  My  !  Mis'  Smith,  don't  git  so  impatient. 
Give  me  time  to  git  my  breath :  it  '11  be 
enough,  when  I  do  tell  you,  to  take  away 
yore  breath,  jest  like  it  did  mine." 

"  Sallie  Martin,  you  do  beat  all  fur  keepin* 
a  body  on  the  hooks." 


The  Uncalled        45 

"  T  ain't  my  fault,  Mis'  Smith.  I  declare 
I  'm  too  astonished  to  speak.  You  know  I 
was  a-standin'  in  my  window,  not  a-thinkin' 
nor  expectin*  nothin',  jest  like  any  person 
would,  you  know  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  go  on." 

"  I  was  jest  a-lookin'  down  the  street,  care 
less, when  who  should  I  see  drive  up  to  Miss 
Prime's  door,  an'  hitch  his  hoss  an'  go  in, 
but  Brother  'Liphalet  Hodges  !  " 

"  Well,  sakes  alive,  Sallie  Martin,  I  hope 
you  ain't  a-considerin'  that  strange.  Why, 
you  could  'a'  seen  that  very  same  sight  any 
time  these  fifteen  years." 

"  But  wait  a  minute  till  I  tell  you.  I 
ain't  done  yit,  by  no  means.  The  strange 
part  'ain't  come.  I  thought  I  'd  jest  wait  at 
the  window  and  see  how  long  Brother 
Hodges  would  stay  :  not  that  it  was  any  o' 
my  bus'ness,  of  course,  or  that  I  wanted  to 
be  a  spyin'  on  anybody,  but  sorter  fur — fur 
cur'osity,  you  know." 

"Cert'n'y,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  feelingly. 
She  could  sympathise  with  such  a  sentiment. 

"  Well,  after  a  while  he  come  out  a- 
smilin'  as  pleasant  as  a  basket  o'  chips  ;  an' 
I  like  to  fell  through  the  winder,  fur  he  was  a- 
leadin'  by  the  hand  —  who  do  you  suppose  ?  " 


46        The  Uncalled 

"  I  'ain't  got  a  mortal  idea  who/'  said 
Mrs.  Smith,  "  unless  it  was  Miss  Hester, 
an'  they  're  married  at  last." 

"No,  indeed,  'twa'n't  her.  It  was  that 
little  Brent  boy  that  his  mother  died  the 
other  day." 

"  Sallie  Martin,  what  air  you  a-tellin* 
me?" 

"It's  the  gospel  truth,  Melviny  Smith, 
as  shore  as  I  'm  a-settin'  here.  Now  what 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

"The  good  Lord  only  knows.  Leadin' 
that  little  Brent  boy  ?  Ef  it  was  n't  you 
a-settin'  there  tellin'  me  this,  Mis'  Martin, 
I  would  n't  believe  it.  You  don't  suppose 
Hodges  has  took  him  to  raise,  do  you  ?  " 

"  How  in  the  name  of  mercy  is  he  goin' 
to  raise  any  child,  when  there  ain't  no 
women  folks  about  his  house  'ceptin'  old 
Marier,  an'  she  so  blind  an'  rheumaticky 
that  she  kin  sca'cely  git  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  what 's  he  a-doin'  with  the  child, 
then?" 

"  That 's  jest  what  I  'm  a-goin'  to  find 
out.  I  'm  a-goin'  down  to  Miss  Prime's. 
Len'  me  yore  shawl,  Melviny." 

"You  ain't  never  goin'  to  dare  to  ask 
her,  air  you  ?  " 


The  Uncalled       47 

"You  jest  trust  me  to  find  things  out 
without  givin'  myself  away.  I  won't  never 
let  her  know  what  I  want  right  out,  but 
I  '11  talk  it  out  o'  her." 

"  What  a  woman  you  air,  Sallie  Martin  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Smith,  admiringly.  "  But  do  hurry 
back  an'  tell  me  what  she  says  :  I  'm  jest 
dyin'  to  know." 

"  I  '11  be  back  in  little  or  no  time,  because 
I  can't  stay,  nohow." 

Mrs.  Martin  threw  the  borrowed  shawl 
over  her  head  and  set  off  down  the  street. 
She  and  her  friend  were  not  dwellers  on  the 
mean  street,  and  so  they  could  pretend  to  so 
nearly  an  equal  social  footing  with  Miss  Prime 
as  to  admit  of  an  occasional  neighbourly  call. 

Through  the  window  Miss  Prime  saw  her 
visitor  approaching,  and  a  grim  smile  curved 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  Comin'  fur 
news,"  muttered  the  spinster.  "  She  '11  git 
all  she  wants  before  she  goes."  But  there 
was  no  trace  of  suspicion  in  her  manner  as 
she  opened  the  door  at  Mrs.  Martin's  rap. 

"  Hey  oh,  Miss  Hester,  busy  as  usual, 
I  see." 

"Yes,  indeed.  People  that  try  to  do 
their  dooty  'ain't  got  much  time  fur  rest  in 
this  world." 


48       The   Uncalled 

"  No,  indeed ;  it 's  dig,  dig,  dig,  and 
work,  work,  work." 

"  Take  off  yore  shawl  an'  set  down,  Sallie. 
It's  a  wonder  you  don't  take  yore  death  o' 
cold  or  git  plum  full  o'  neuralgy,  a-runnin' 
around  in  this  weather  with  nothin'  but  a 
shawl  over  yore  head." 

"  La,  Miss  Hester,  they  say  that  worth 
less  people 's  hard  to  kill.  It  ain't  allus 
true,  though,  fur  there  was  poor  Margar't 
Brent,  she  was  n't  worth  much,  but  my  !  she 
went  out  like  a  match." 

"  Yes,  but  matches  don't  go  out  until 
their  time  ef  they  're  held  down  right ;  an' 
it's  jest  so  with  people." 

"That's  true  enough,  Miss  Hester.  Was 
you  to  Margar't's  funeral  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  went." 

"  Did  you  go  out  to  the  cimetery  ?  " 

"  Oomph  huh." 

"  Did  she  look  natural  ?  " 

"  Jest  as  natural  as  one  could  expect  after 
a  hard  life  an'  a  hard  death." 

"  Pore  Margar't  !  "  Mrs.  Martin  sighed. 
There  was  a  long  and  embarrassed  silence. 
Miss  Prime's  lips  were  compressed,  and  she 
seemed  more  aggressively  busy  than  usual. 
She  bustled  about  as  if  every  minute  were 


The  Uncalled       49 

her  last  one.  She  brushed  off  tables,  set 
chairs  to  rights,  and  tried  the  golden-brown 
cup-cake  with  a  straw  to  see  if  it  were  done. 
Her  visitor  positively  writhed  with  curiosity 
and  discomfiture.  Finally  she  began  again. 
"  Margar't  only  had  one  child,  did  n't  she  ? " 

"Yes,  that  was  all." 

"  Pore  little  lamb.  Motherless  childern 
has  a  hard  time  of  it." 

"  Indeed,  most  of 'em  do." 

"  Do  you  know  what 's  become  of  the 
child,  Miss  Hester  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Sallie  Martin,  an'  you  do  too, 
or  you  would  n't  be  a-settin'  there  beatin' 
about  the  bush,  askin'  me  all  these  questions." 

This  sudden  outburst  gave  Mrs.  Martin 
quite  a  turn,  but  she  exclaimed,  "  I  declare 
to  goodness,  Miss  Hester,  I  'ain't  heerd  a 
livin'  thing  about  it,  only  —  " 

She  checked  herself,  but  her  relentless 
hostess  caught  at  the  word  and  demanded, 
"  Only  what,  Mis'  Martin  ?  " 

"Well,  I  seen  Brother  'Liphalet  Hodges 
takin'  him  away  from  here  in  his  buggy — " 

"  An'  so  you  come  down  to  see  what  was 
what,  eh,  so  's  you  could  be  the  first  to  tell 
the  neighbourhood  ? " 

"  Now,   Miss   Hester,  you   know   that  I 

4 


50       The  Uncalled 

ain't  one  o'  them  that  talks,  but  I  do  feel 
sich  an  interest  in  the  pore  motherless  child, 
an'  when  I  seen  Brother  Hodges  a-takin' 
him  away,  I  thought  perhaps  he  was  a-goin' 
to  take  him  to  raise." 

"  Well,  Brother  Hodges  ain't  a-goin'  to 
take  him  to  raise." 

"  Mercy  sakes !  Miss  Hester,  don't  git 
mad,  but  who  is  ?  " 

"  I  am,  that's  who." 

"  Miss  Prime,  what  air  you  a-sayin'  ? 
You  shorely  don't  mean  it.  What  kin  you 
do  with  a  child  ?  " 

"  I  kin  train  him  up  in  the  way  he  ought 
to  go,  an'  keep  him  out  o'  other  people's 
houses  an'  the  street." 

"  Well,  o'  course,  that 's  somethin',"  said 
Mrs.  Martin,  weakly. 

"  Somethin'  ?     Why,  it 's  everything." 

The  visitor  had  now  gotten  the  informa 
tion  for  which  she  was  looking,  and  was 
anxious  to  be  gone.  She  was  absolutely 
bursting  with  her  news. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  goin',"  she  said,  replac 
ing  her  shawl  and  standing  in  embarrassed 
indecision.  "  I  only  run  in  fur  a  minute. 
I  hope  you  'ain't  got  no  hard  feelin's  at  my 
inquisitiveness." 


The  Uncalled        51 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  wanted  to  know, 
an'  you  come  and  asked,  that 's  all." 

"  I  hope  you  '11  git  along  all  right  with 
the  child." 

"  I  sha'  n't  stop  at  hopin'.  I  shall  take  the 
matter  to  the  Lord  in  prayer." 

"Yes,  He  knows  best.  Good-bye,  Miss 
Hester." 

"  Good-bye,  Sallie  ;  come  in  ag'in."  The 
invitation  sounded  a  little  bit  sarcastic,  and 
once  more  the  grim  smile  played  about  Miss 
Prime's  mouth. 

"  I  'low,"  she  observed  to  herself,  as  she 
took  the  cake  from  the  oven  for  the  last  time, 
tried  it,  and  set  it  on  the  table,  —  "I  'low 
that  I  did  give  Sallie  Martin  one  turn.  I 
never  did  see  sich  a  woman  fur  pryin'  into 
other  folks'  business." 

Swift  are  the  wings  of  gossip,  and  swift 
were  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Sallie  Martin  as  she 
hurried  back  to  tell  the  news  to  her  impatient 
friend,  who  listened  speechless  with  enjoy 
ment  and  astonishment. 

"  Who  would  'a'  thought  you  could  'a' 
talked  it  out  o'  her  so  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  Oh,  I  led  her  right  along  tell  she  told 
me  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Martin,  with  a 
complacency  which,  remembering  her  recep 
tion,  she  was  far  from  feeling. 


52        The  Uncalled 

Shortly  after  her  departure,  and  while,  no 
doubt,  reinforced  by  Mrs.  Smith,  she  was 
still  watching  at  the  window,  'Liphalet 
Hodges  drove  leisurely  up  to  the  door  again. 

"Well,  Freddie,"  he  said,  as  he  helped 
the  child  to  alight,  "we've  had  a  great 
time  together,  we  have,  an'  we  ain't  frozen, 
neither  :  I  told  Miss  Prime  that  she  need  n't 
be  afeared.  Don't  drop  yore  jumpin'-jack, 
now,  an'  be  keerful  an'  don't  git  yore  hands 
on  yore  apron,  'cause  they  're  kind  o'  sticky. 
Miss  Hester  'u'd  take  our  heads  offef  we 
come  back  dirty." 

The  child's  arms  were  full  of  toys,  —  a 
jumping-jack,  a  climbing  monkey,  a  popgun, 
and  the  etceteras  of  childish  amusement, — 
and  his  pockets  and  cheeks  bulged  with 
candy. 

"  La,  'Liphalet,"  exclaimed  Miss  Prime, 
when  she  saw  them,  "  what  on  airth  have 
you  been  a-buyin'  that  child — jumpin'-jacks 
an'  sich  things  ?  They  ain't  a  bit  o'  good, 
'ceptin'  to  litter  up  a  house  an'  put  lightness 
in  childern's  minds.  Freddie,  what 's  that 
on  yore  apron  ?  Goodness  me  !  an'  look  at 
them  hands  —  candy  !  'Liphalet  Hodges,  I 
did  give  you  credit  fur  better  jedgment  than 
this.  Candy  is  the  cause  o'  more  aches  an' 


The  Uncalled        53 

pains  than  poison;  an'  some  of  it's  reelly 
colored  with  ars'nic.  How  do  you  expect  a 
child  to  grow  up  healthy  an'  with  sound 
teeth  when  you  feed  him  on  candy  ? " 

cc  Now,  Miss  Hester,  now,  now,  now.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a-interferin'  with  yore  bus'- 
ness ;  but  it 's  jest  like  I  said  before,  an'  I 
will  stick  to  it,  you  'ain't  never  had  no  expe- 
runce  in  raisin'  children.  They  can't  git 
along  jest  on  meat  an'  bread  an'  jam :  they 
need  candy  —  an'  —  ah  —  candy  —  an'  sich 
things."  Mr.  Hodges  ended  lamely,  looking 
rather  guiltily  at  the  boy's  bulging  pockets. 
"  A  little  bit  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  no  child." 

"'Liphalet,  I've  got  a  dooty  to  perform 
towards  this  motherless  child,  an'  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  let  no  foolish  notions  keep  me 
from  performin'  it." 

"  Miss  Hester,  I  'm  a-tryin'  to  follow  Him 
that  was  a  father  to  the  fatherless  an'  a  hus 
band  to  the  widow,  —  strange,  that  was  made 
only  to  the  widow,  —  an'  I  've  got  somethin' 
of  a  idee  o'  dooty  myself.  You  may  think 
I  'm  purty  presumptuous,  but  I  've  took  a 
notion  into  my  head  to  kind  o'  help  along 
a-raisin'  Freddie.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  question 
yore  authority,  or  nothin',  but  I  thought 
mebbe  you  'd  len'  me  the  child  once  in  a 


54       The  Uncalled 

while  to  kind  o'  lighten  up  that  old  lonesome 
place  o'  mine :  I  know  that  Freddie  won't 
object." 

"Oh,  'Liphalet,  do  go  'long:  I   scarcely 
know    whether  you    air  a  man  or    a  child, 


sometimes." 


"  There 's  One  that  says, '  Except  you  be 
come  as  a  little  child  '  —  " 

"  'Liphalet,  will  you  go  'long  home  ?  " 
"  I  'spect  I  'd  better  be  gittin'  along.  — 
Good-bye,  Freddie  ;  be  a  good  boy,  an'  some 
day  I  '11  take  you  up  to  my  house  an'  let  you 
ride  old  Bess  around.  —  Good-bye,  Miss 
Hester."  And  as  he  passed  out  to  his  buggy 
he  whistled  tenderly  something  that  was 
whistled  when  he  was  a  boy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  life  of  one  boy  is  much  like  that  of 
another.  They  all  have  their  joys 
and  their  griefs,  their  triumphs  and  their 
failures,  their  loves  and  their  hates,  their 
friends  and  their  foes,  much  as  men  have 
them  in  that  maturer  life  of  which  the  days 
of  youth  are  an  epitome.  It  would  be  rather 
an  uninteresting  task,  and  an  entirely  thank 
less  one,  to  follow  in  detail  the  career  of 
Frederick  Brent  as  he  grew  from  childhood 
to  youth.  But  in  order  to  understand  cer 
tain  traits  that  developed  in  his  character,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  note  some,  at  least,  of  the 
circumstances  that  influenced  his  early  life. 

While  Miss  Prime  grew  to  care  for  him 
in  her  own  unemotional  way,  she  had  her 
own  notions  of  how  a  boy  should  be  trained, 
and  those  notions  seemed  to  embody  the  re 
pression  of  every  natural  impulse.  She 
reasoned  thus :  "  Human  beings  are  by 
nature  evil :  evil  must  be  crushed :  ergoy 
everything  natural  must  be  crushed."  In 


56       The  Uncalled 

pursuance  of  this  principle,  she  followed  out 
a  deliberate  course  of  restriction,  which,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  combating  influence  of 
Eliphalet  Hodges,  would  have  dwarfed  the 
mental  powers  of  the  boy  and  cramped  his 
soul  beyond  endurance.  When  he  came  of 
an  age  to  play  marbles,  he  was  forbidden  to 
play,  because  it  was,  to  Miss  Hester's  mind, 
a  species  of  gambling.  Swimming  was  too 
dangerous  to  be  for  a  moment  considered. 
Fishing,  without  necessity,  was  wanton 
cruelty.  Flying  kites  was  foolishness  and  a 
waste  of  time. 

The  boy  had  shown  an  aptitude  at  his  les 
sons  that  had  created  in  his  guardian's  mind 
some  ambition  for  him,  and  she  held  him 
down  to  his  books  with  rigid  assiduity.  He 
was  naturally  studious,  but  the  feeling  that 
he  was  being  driven  made  his  tasks  repellent, 
although  he  performed  them  without  out 
ward  sign  of  rebellion,  while  he  fumed 
within. 

His  greatest  relaxations  were  his  trips  to 
and  from  his  old  friend  Hodges.  If  Miss 
Prime  crushed  him,  this  gentle  soul  comforted 
him  and  smoothed  out  his  ruffled  feelings. 
It  was  this  influence  that  kept  him  from  des 
pair.  Away  from  his  guardian,  he  was  as 


The  Uncalled        57 

if  a  chain  that  galled  his  flesh  had  been  re 
moved.  And  yet  he  could  not  hate  Miss 
Hester,  for  it  was  constantly  impressed  upon 
him  that  all  was  being  done  for  his  good,  and 
the  word  "  duty  "  was  burned  like  a  fiery 
cross  upon  his  heart  and  brain. 

There  is  a  bit  of  the  pagan  in  every  nat 
ural  boy,  and  to  give  him  too  much  to  rev 
erence  taxes  his  powers  until  they  are  worn 
and  impotent  by  the  time  he  reaches  man 
hood.  Under  Miss  Hester's  tutelage  too 
many  things  became  sacred  to  Fred  Brent. 
It  was  wicked  to  cough  in  church,  as  it  was 
a  sacrilege  to  play  with  a  hymn-book.  His 
training  was  the  apotheosis  of  the  non-essen 
tial.  But,  after  all,  there  is  no  rebel  like 
Nature.  She  is  an  iconoclast. 

When  he  was  less  than  ten  years  old,  an 
incident  occurred  that  will  in  a  measure  in 
dicate  the  manner  of  his  treatment.  Miss 
Prime's  prescription  for  making  a  good  boy 
was  two  parts  punishment,  two  parts  admo 
nition,  and  six  parts  prayer.  Accordingly,  as 
the  watchful  and  sympathetic  neighbours  said, 
"  she  an'  that  pore  child  fairly  lived  in 
church." 

It  was  one  class-meeting  night,  and,  as 
usual,  the  boy  and  his  guardian  were  sitting 


58       The  Uncalled 

side  by  side  at  church.  It  was  the  habit  of 
some  of  the  congregation  to  bring  their  out 
side  controversies  into  the  class-room  under 
the  guise  of  testimonies  or  exhortations,  and 
there  to  air  their  views  where  their  opponents 
could  not  answer  them.  One  such  was 
Daniel  Hastings.  The  trait  had  so  de 
veloped  in  him  that  whenever  he  rose  to 
speak,  the  question  ran  around,  "  I  wonder 
who  Dan'l  's  a-goin'  to  rake  over  the  coals 
now."  On  this  day  he  had  been  having  a 
tilt  with  his  old-time  enemy,  Thomas  Don 
aldson,  over  the  advent  into  Dexter  of  a 
young  homoeopathic  doctor.  With  charac 
teristic  stubbornness,  Dan'l  had  held  that 
there  was  no  good  in  any  but  the  old-school 
medical  men,  and  he  sneered  at  the  idea  of 
anybody's  being  cured  with  sugar,  as  he  con 
temptuously  termed  the  pellets  and  powders 
affected  by  the  new  school.  Thomas,  who 
was  considered  something  of  a  wit  and  who 
sustained  his  reputation  by  the  perpetration 
of  certain  time-worn  puns,  had  replied  that 
other  hogs  were  sugar-cured,  and  why  not 
Dan'l  ?  This  had  turned  the  laugh  on  Hast 
ings,  and  he  went  home  from  the  corner  gro 
cery,  where  the  men  were  congregated,  in 
high  dudgeon. 


The  Uncalled        59 

Still  smarting  with  the  memory  of  his  de 
feat,  when  he  rose  to  speak  that  evening,  he 
cast  a  glance  full  of  unfriendly  significance 
at  his  opponent  and  launched  into  a  fiery 
exhortation  on  true  religion.  "  Some  folks' 
religion,"  he  said,  "  is  like  sugar,  all  sweet 
ness  and  no  power  ;  but  I  want  my  religion 
like  I  want  my  medicine :  I  want  it  strong, 
an'  I  want  it  bitter,  so  's  I  '11  know  I  've  got 
it."  In  Fred  Brent  the  sense  of  humour  had 
not  been  entirely  crushed,  and  the  expression 
was  too  much  for  his  gravity.  He  bowed 
his  head  and  covered  his  mouth  with  his 
hand.  He  made  no  sound,  but  there  were 
three  pairs  of  eyes  that  saw  the  movement,  — 
Miss  Prime's,  Eliphalet  Hodges',  and  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Simpson's.  Miss  Prime's  gaze 
was  horrified,  Mr.  Simpson's  stern ;  but  in 
the  eye  of  Mr.  Hodges  there  was  a  most 
ungodly  twinkle. 

When  Dan'l  Hastings  had  finished  his  ex 
hortation —  which  was  in  reality  an  arraign 
ment  of  Thomas  Donaldson's  medical  heresies 
—  and  sat  down,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson 
arose,  and,  bending  an  accusing  glance  upon 
the  shrinking  boy,  began  :  "  I  perceive  on 
the  part  of  some  of  the  younger  members 
of  the  congregation  a  disposition  towards 


60        The  Uncalled 

levity.  The  house  of  God  is  not  the  place 
to  find  amusement.  I  never  see  young  peo 
ple  deriding  their  elders  without  thinking  of 
the  awful  lesson  taught  by  the  Lord's  judg 
ment  upon  those  wicked  youths  whom  the 
she-bears  devoured.  I  never  see  a  child 
laughing  in  church  without  trembling  in 
spirit  for  his  future.  Some  of  the  men  whom 
I  have  seen  in  prison,  condemned  to  death 
or  a  life  of  confinement,  have  begun  their 
careers  just  in  this  way,  showing  disrespect 
for  their  elders  and  for  the  church.  Beware, 
young  people,  who  think  you  are  smart  and 
laugh  and  titter  in  the  sanctuary ;  there  is  a 
prison  waiting  for  you,  there  is  a  hell  yawn 
ing  for  you.  Behold,  there  is  death  in  the 
pot !  " 

With  a  terrible  look  at  the  boy,  Mr. 
Simpson  sat  down.  There  was  much  cran 
ing  of  necks  and  gazing  about,  but  few  in  the 
church  would  have  known  to  whom  the  pas 
tor's  remarks  were  addressed  had  not  Miss 
Prime,  at  their  conclusion,  sighed  in  an  in 
jured  way,  and,  rising  with  set  lips,  led  the 
culprit  out,  as  a  criminal  is  led  to  the  scaf 
fold.  How  the  boy  suffered  as,  with  flaming 
face,  he  walked  down  the  aisle  to  the  door, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  !  He  saw  in  the 


The  Uncalled        61 

faces  about  him  the  accusation  of  having 
done  a  terrible  thing,  something  unheard  of 
and  more  wicked  than  he  could  understand. 
)(lHe  felt  revolted,  child  as  he  was,  at  the  re 
ligion  thatmade  so  much  of  his  fault.  In- 


wardly,  he  vowed  that  he  would  never  "  get 
religion  "  or  go  into  a  church  when  he  was 
big  enough  to  have  his  owjuvay*— 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  a  step  ap 
proached  them  from  behind,  and  Eliphalet 
Hodges  joined  them.  Miss  Prime  turned 
tragically  at  his  greeting,  'and  broke  out, 
"Don't  reproach  me  'Liphalet;  it  ain't  no 
trainin'  o'  mine  that's  perduced  a  child  that 
laughs  at  old  foks  in  the  Lord's  house." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  reproach  you,  Miss 
Hester,  never  you  fear ;  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
say  a  word  ag'in'  yore  trainin' ;  but  I  jest 
thought  I  'd  ask  you  not  to  be  too  hard  on 
Freddie.  You  know  that  Dan'l  is  kind  o' 
tryin'  sometimes  even  to  the  gravity  of  older 
people ;  an'  childern  will  be  childern ;  they 
'ain't  got  the  sense,  nor  —  nor  —  the  deceit 
to  keep  a  smooth  face  when  they  're  a- 
laughin'  all  in  their  innards.'* 

Miss  Prime  turned  upon  him  in  righteous 
wrath.  "  'Liphalet,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I 
think  it's  enough  fur  this  child  to  struggle 


62        The  Uncalled 

ag'inst  natural  sin,  without  encouragin'  him 
by  makin'  excuses  fur  him." 

"  It  ain't  my  intention  nor  my  desire  to 
set  a  bad  example  before  nobody,  especially 
the  young  lambs  of  the  flock,  but  I  ain't  a- 
goin'  to  blame  Freddie  fur  doin'  what  many 
another  of  us  wanted  to  do." 

"'Deed  an'  double,  that  is  fine  talk  fur 
you,  'Liphalet  Hodges !  you  a  trustee  of 
the  church,  an'  been  a  class-leader,  a-holdin' 
up  fur  sich  onregenerate  carryin's-on." 

"  I  ain't  a-holdin'  up  fur  nothin',  Miss 
Hester,' ceptin'  nature  an'  the  very  could  n't- 
help-it-ness  o'  the  thing  altogether.  I  ain't 
a  boy  no  more,  by  a  good  many  years,  but 
there 's  times  when  I  Ve  set  under  Dan'l 
Hastings's  testimonies  jest  mortally  cramped 
to  laugh  ;  an'  ef  it's  so  with  a  man,  how 
will  it  be  with  a  pore  innercent  child  ?  I 
ain't  a-excusin*  natural  sin  in  nobody.  It 
wa'n't  so  much  Freddie's  natural  sin  as  it 
was  Dan'l's  natural  funniness."  And  there 
was  something  very  like  a  chuckle  in  'Liph- 
alet's  throat. 

"'Liphalet,  the  devil  's  been  puttin'  fleas 
into  yore  ear,  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  let  you 
argy  me  out  o'  none  o'  my  settled  convic 
tions,  although  the  Old  Man  's  put  plenty 


The  Uncalled        63 

of  argyment  into  yore  head.  That's  his 
way  o'  capturin'  a  soul.  —  Walk  on  ahead, 
Frederick,  an'  don't  be  list'nin'.  I  '11  'tend 
to  yore  case  later  on." 

"  It 's  funny  to  me,  Miss  Hester,  how  it 
is  that  Christians  know  so  much  more  about 
the  devil's  ways  than  they  do  about  the 
Lord's.  They  're  allus  a-sayin',  <  the  Lord 
moves  in  a  mysterious  way,'  but  they  kin 
allus  put  their  finger  on  the  devil." 

"  'Liphalet  Hodges,  that 's  a  slur  !  " 

"  I  ain't  a-meanin'  it  as  no  slur,  Miss 
Hester ;  but  most  Christians  do  seem  to 
have  a  powerful  fondness  for  the  devil.  I 
notice  that  they  're  allus  admirin'  his  work 
an'  praisin'  up  his  sharpness,  an'  they  'd  be 
monstrous  disappointed  ef  he  did  n't  git  as 
many  souls  as  they  expect." 

"  Well,  after  all  the  years  that  I  've  been 
a-workin'  in  the  church  an'  a-tryin'  to  let 
my  light  so  shine  before  the  world,  I  did  n't 
think  that  you  'd  be  the  one  to  throw  out 
hints  about  my  Christianity.  But  we  all 
have  our  burdens  to  bear,  an'  I  'm  a-goin'  to 
bear  mine  the  best  I  kin,  an'  do  my  dooty, 
whatever  comes  of  it."  And  Miss  Hester 
gave  another  sigh  of  injured  rectitude. 

"  I    see,    Miss    Hester,  that  you  're  jest 


64        The  Uncalled 

bent  an*  bound  not  to  see  what  I  mean,  so 
I  might  as  well  go  home." 

"  I  think  my  mind  ain't  givin'  way  yit, 
an'  I  believe  that  I  do  understand  plain 
words ;  but  I  ain't  a-bearin'  you  no  grudge. 
You  've  spoke  yore  mind,  an'  it 's  all  right." 

"  But  I  hope  there  ain't  no  hard  feelin's, 
after  all  these  years." 

"  Oh,  'Liphalet,  it  ain't  a  part  of  even 
my  pore  weak  religion  to  bear  hard  feelin's 
towards  no  one,  no  matter  how  they  treat 
me.  I  'm  jest  tryin'  to  bear  my  cross  an* 
suffer  fur  the  Lord's  sake." 

"  But  I  hope  I  ain't  a-givin'  you  no  cross 
to  bear.  I  'ain't  never  doubted  yore  good 
ness  or  yore  Christianity  :  I  only  thought 
that  mebbe  yore  methods,  yore  methods  —  " 

Miss  Prime's  lips  were  drawn  into  a  line. 
She  divided  that  line  to  say,  "  I  know  what 
the  Scriptures  say  :  '  If  thy  right  hand  of 
fend  thee'  — " 

"  Hester,  Hester ! "  he  cried,  stretching 
out  his  hands  to  her. 

"  Good-night,  Brother  Hodges.  I  must 
go  in."  She  turned  and  left  him  standing 
at  the  gate  with  a  hurt  look  in  his  face. 

On  going  into  the  house,  Miss  Hester 
did  not  immediately  'tend  to  Fred,  as  she 


The  Uncalled        65 

had  promised.  Instead,  she  left  him  and 
went  into  her  own  room  where  she  remained 
awhile.  When  she  came  out,  her  lips  were 
no  less  set,  but  her  eyes  were  red.  It  is 
hardly  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  been 
indulging  in  that  solace  of  woman's  woes,  a 
good  cry. 

"  Take  off  yore  jacket,  Freddie,"  she  said, 
calmly,  taking  down  a  switch  from  over  the 
clothes-press.  "  I  'm  a-goin'  to  whip  you  ; 
but,  remember,  I  ain't  a-punishin'  you  be 
cause  I  'm  mad.  It 's  fur  the  purpose  of 
instruction.  It 's  fur  yore  own  good." 

Fred  received  his  dressing-down  without 
a  whimper.  He  was  too  angry  to  cry. 
This  Miss  Prime  took  as  a  mark  of  especial 
depravity.  In  fact,  the  boy  had  been  un 
able  to  discover  any  difference  between  an 
instructive  and  a  vindictive  whipping.  It 
was  perfectly  clear  in  his  guardian's  mind, 
no  doubt,  but  a  cherry  switch  knows  no 
such  distinctions. 

This  incident  only  prepared  Fred  Brent 
for  a  further  infraction  of  his  guardian's 
rules  the  next  day.  One  of  Miss  Prime's 
strictest  orders  had  to  do  with  fighting. 
Whatever  the  boys  did  to  Fred,  he  was 
never  to  resent  it.  He  must  come  to  her, 
s 


66        The   Uncalled 

and  she  would  go  to  the  boy's  mother. 
What  an  order  to  give  a  boy  with  muscles 
and  fists  and  Nature  strong  within  him ! 
But,  save  for  the  telling,  it  had  been  obeyed, 
although  it  is  hard  to  feel  one's  self  an  un 
willing  coward,  a  prig,  and  the  laughing 
stock  of  one's  fellows.  But  when,  on  the 
day  after  his  unjust  punishment,  and  while 
still  stung  by  the  sense  of  wrong,  one  of 
the  petty  schoolboy  tyrants  began  to  taunt 
him,  he  turned  upon  the  young  scamp  and 
thrashed  him  soundly.  His  tormentor  was 
not  more  hurt  than  surprised.  Like  most 
of  his  class,  he  was  a  tattler.  The  matter 
got  to  the  teacher's  ears,  and  that  night 
Fred  carried  home  an  ominous-looking 
note.  In  his  heart  he  believed  that  it 
meant  another  application  of  cherry  switch, 
either  instructive  or  vindictive,  but  he  did 
not  care.  He  had  done  the  natural  thing, 
and  Nature  rewards  us  for  obeying  her  laws 
by  making  us  happy  or  stoical.  He  had 
gone  up  in  the  estimation  of  his  school 
fellows,  even  the  thrashed  one,  and  he  felt  a 
reckless  joy.  He  would  welcome  a  whip 
ping.  It  would  bring  him  back  memories 
of  what  he  had  given  Billy  Tompkins. 
"  Would  n't  Miss  Hester  be  surprised," 


The  Uncalled       67 

he  thought,  "  if  I  should  laugh  out  while 
she  is  whipping  me  ?"  And  he  laughed  at 
the  very  thought.  He  was  full  of  pleasure 
at  himself.  He  had  satisfied  the  impulse 
within  him  for  once,  and  it  made  him 
happy. 

Miss  Prime  read  the  ominous  note,  and 
looked  at  her  charge  thoughtfully.  Fred 
glanced  expectantly  in  the  direction  of  the 
top  of  the  clothes-press.  But  she  only 
said,  "  Go  out  an'  git  in  yore  kindlin', 
Freddie ;  git  yore  chores  done,  an*  then 
come  in  to  supper."  Her  voice  was  men 
acingly  quiet.  The  boy  had  learned  to 
read  the  signs  of  her  face  too  well  to  think 
that  he  was  to  get  off  so  easily  as  this. 
Evidently,  he  would  "  get  it "  after  supper, 
or  Miss  Prime  had  some  new,  refined  mode 
of  punishment  in  store  for  him.  But  what 
was  it  ?  He  cudgelled  his  brain  in  vain,  as 
he  finished  his  chores,  and  at  table  he  could 
hardly  eat  for  wondering.  But  he  might 
have  spared  himself  his  pains,  for  he  learned 
all  too  soon. 

Immediately  after  supper  he  was  bidden 
to  put  on  his  cap  and  come  along.  Miss 
Prime  took  him  by  the  hand.  "  I  'm  a- 
goin'  to  take  you,"  she  said,  "  to  beg  Willie 


68       The  Uncalled 

Tompkins's   pardon    fur   the  way    you   did 
him." 

Did  the  woman  know  what  it  meant  to 
the  boy  ?  She  could  not,  or  her  heart  would 
have  turned  against  the  cruelty.  Fred  was 
aghast.  Beg  his  pardon  !  A  whipping  was 
a  thousand  times  better  :  indeed,  it  would  be 
a  mercy.  He  began  to  protest,  but  was 
speedily  silenced.  The  enforced  silence, 
however,  did  not  cool  his  anger.  He  had 
done  what  other  boys  did.  He  had  acted 
in  the  only  way  that  it  seemed  a  boy  could 
act  under  the  circumstances,  and  he  had  ex 
pected  to  be  punished  as  his  fellows  were ; 
but  this  —  this  was  awful.  He  clinched  his 
hands  until  -the  nails  dug  into  the  palms. 
His  face  was  as  pale  as  death.  He  sweated 
with  the  consuming  fire  of  impotent  rage. 
He  wished  that  he  might  run  away  some 
where  where  he  could  hide  and  tear  things 
and  swear.  For  a  moment  only  he  enter 
tained  the  thought,  and  then  a  look  into  the 
determined  face  of  the  woman  at  his  side 
drove  the  thought  away.  To  his  childish 
eyes,  distorted  by  resentment,  she  was  an 
implacable  and  relentless  monster  who  would 
follow  him  with  punishment  anywhere  he 
might  go. 


The  Uncalled        69 

And  now  they  were  at  Billy  Tompkins's 
door.  They  had  passed  through,  and  he 
found  himself  saying  mechanically  the  words 
which  Miss  Prime  put  into  his  mouth, 
while  his  tormentor  grinned  from  beside  his 
mother's  chair.  Then,  after  a  few  words 
between  the  women,  in  which  he  heard  from 
Mrs.  Tompkins  the  mysterious  words,  "  Oh, 
I  don't  blame  you,  Miss  Hester ;  I  know 
that  blood  will  tell,"  they  passed  out,  and 
the  grinning  face  of  Billy  Tompkins  was  the 
last  thing  that  Fred  saw.  It  followed  him 
home.  The  hot  tears  fell  from  his  eyes, 
but  they  did  not  quench  the  flames  that 
were  consuming  him.  There  is  nothing  so 
terrible  as  the  just  anger  of  a  child,  — 
terrible  in  its  very  powerlessness.  Poly 
phemus  is  a  giant,  though  the  mountain 
hold  him  down. 

Next  morning,  when  Fred  went  to  school, 
Billy  Tompkins  with  a  crowd  of  boys  about 
was  waiting  to  deride  him  ;  but  at  sight  of 
his  face  they  stopped.  He  walked  straight 
up  to  his  enemy  and  began  striking  him 
with  all  his  might. 

"  She  made  me  beg  your  pardon,  did 
she  ?  "  he  gasped  between  the  blows  ;  "  well, 
you  take  that  for  it,  and  that."  The  boys 


70       The  Uncalled 

had  fallen  back,  and  Billy  was  attempting  to 
defend  himself. 

"  Mebbe  she  '11  make  me  do  it  again  to 
night.  If  she  does,  I  '11  give  you  some 
more  o'  this  to-morrow,  and  every  time  I 
have  to  beg  your  pardon.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  boys  cheered  lustily,  and  Billy  Tomp- 
kins,  completely  whipped  and  ashamed, 
slunk  away. 

That  night  no  report  of  the  fight  went 
home.  Fred  Brent  held  the  master  hand. 

In  life  it  is  sometimes  God  and  sometimes 
the  devil  that  comes  to  the  aid  of  oppressed 
humanity.  From  the  means,  it  is  often  hard 
to  tell  whose  handiwork  are  the  results. 


CHAPTER   VII 

CYNICS  and  fools  laugh  at  calf-love. 
Youth,  which  is  wiser,  treats  it  more 
seriously.  When  the  boy  begins  to  think 
of  a  girl,  instead  of  girls,  he  displays  the  first 
budding  signs  of  a  real  growing  manhood. 
The  first  passion  may  be  but  the  enthusiasm 
of  discovery.  Sometimes  it  is  not.  At 
times  it  dies,  as  fleeting  enthusiasms  do. 
Again  it  lives,  and  becomes  a  blessing,  a 
curse,  or  a  memory.  Who  shall  say  that 
the  first  half-sweet  pang  that  strikes  a  boy's 
heart  in  the  presence  of  tlie  dear  first  girl  is 
any  less  strong,  intoxicating,  and  real  to  him 
than  that  which  prompts  him  to  take  the 
full-grown  woman  to  wife  ?  With  factitious 
sincerity  we  quote,  "  The  boy  is  father  to 
the  man,"  and  then  refuse  to  believe  that 
the  qualities,  emotions,  and  passions  of  the 
man  are  inherited  from  this  same  boy,  —  are 
just  the  growth,  the  development,  of  what 
was  embryonic  in  him. 

Nothing  is  more  serious,  more  pleasant, 
and    more    diverting   withal,    than    a    boy's 


72        The  Uncalled 

brooding  or  exultation — one  is  the  comple 
ment  of  the  other — over  his  first  girl.  As, 
to  a  great  extent,  a  man  is  moulded  by  the 
woman  he  marries,  so  to  no  less  a  degree  is 
a  boy's  character  turned  and  shaped  by  the 
girl  he  adores.  Either  he  descends  to  her 
level,  or  she  draws  him  up,  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  to  her  own  plane.  Girls  are  mis- 
s  i  o  n  a  r  i  e  s_\y]^^Qny_£rjJbQy^^^  y 

heathens^  When  a  boy  has  a  girl,  he  re 
members  to  put  on  his  cuffs  and  collars,  and 
he  does  n't  put  his  necktie  into  his  pocket 
on  the  way  to  school. 

In  a  boy's  life,  the  having  of  a  girl  isjhe 
setting  up  of  an  ideal.  It  is  the  new  ele 
ment,  the  higher  something  which  abashes 
thejmabashed,  and  makes  John^wiiD-caused 
Henry's  nose  to  bleed,  tremble  when  little 
Mary  stamps  her  foot.  It  is  like  an  atheist's 
finding  God,  the  sudden  recognition  of  a 
higher  and  purer  force  against  which  all  that 
he  knows  is  powerless.  Why  does  n't  John 
bully  Mary  ?  It  would  be  infinitely  easier 
than  his  former  exploit  with  Henry.  But 
he  does  n't.  He  blushes  in  her  presence, 
brings  her  the  best  apples,  out  of  which 
heretofore  he  has  enjoined  the  boys  not  to 
"  take  a  hog-bite,"  and,  even  though  the 


The  Uncalled        73 

parental  garden  grow  none,  comes  by  flowers 
for  her  in  some  way,  queer  boyish  bouquets 
where  dandelions  press  shoulders  with  spring- 
beauties,  daffodils,  and  roses,  —  strange  de 
mocracy  of  flowerdom.  He  feels  older  and 
stronger. 

In  Fred's  case  the  object  of  adoration  was 
no  less  a  person  than  Elizabeth  Simpson, 
the  minister's  daughter.  From  early  child 
hood  they  had  seen  and  known  each  other 
at  school,  and  between  them  had  sprung 
up  a  warm  childish  friendship,  apparently 
because  their  ways  home  lay  along  the  same 
route.  In  such  companionship  the  years 
sped ;  but  Fred  was  a  diffident  boy,  and  he 
was  seventeen  and  Elizabeth  near  the  same 
before  he  began  to  feel  those  promptings 
which  made  him  blushingly  offer  to  carry 
her  book  for  her  as  far  as  he  went.  She 
had  hesitated,  refused,  and  then  assented,  as 
is  the  manner  of  her  sex  and  years.  It  had 
become  a  settled  thing  for  them  to  walk 
home  together,  he  bearing  her  burdens,  and 
doing  for  her  any  other  little  service  that 
occurred  to  his  boyish  sense  of  gallantry. 

Without  will  of  his  own,  and  without 
returning  the  favour,  he  had  grown  in  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Simpson's  esteem.  This  was  due 


74       The  Uncalled 

mostly  to  his  guardian's  excellent  work.  In 
spite  of  his  rebellion,  training  and  environ 
ment  had  brought  him  greatly  under  her 
control,  and  when  she  began  to  admonish 
him  about  his  lost  condition  spiritually  she 
had  been  able  to  awaken  a  sort  of  supersti 
tious  anxiety  in  the  boy's  breast.  When 
Miss  Prime  perceived  that  this  had  been 
accomplished,  she  went  forthwith  to  her 
pastor  and  unburdened  her  heart. 

"  Brother  Simpson,"  said  she,  "  I  feel  that 
the  Lord  has  appointed  me  an  instrument  in 
His  hands  for  bringin'  a  soul  into  the  king 
dom."  The  minister  put  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  together  and  sighed  piously  and  en 
couragingly.  "  I  have  been  labourin'  with 
Freddie  in  the  sperrit  of  Christian  industry, 
an'  I  believe  that  I  have  finally  brought  him 
to  a  realism'  sense  of  his  sinfulness." 

"  H'm-m,"  said  the  minister.  "  Bless  the 
Lord  for  this  evidence  of  the  activity  of  His 
people.  Go  on,  sister." 

"  Freddie  has  at  last  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  hell  is  his  lot  unless  he  flees  unto 
the  mountain  and  seeks  salvation." 

"  Bless  the  Lord  for  this." 

"  Now,  Brother  Simpson,  I  have  done  my 
part  as  fur  as  the  Lord  has  showed  me,  ex- 


The  Uncalled        75 

cept  to  ask  you  to  come  and  wrastle  with 
that  boy.0 

"  Let  not  thy  heart  be  troubled,  Sister 
Prime,  for  I  will  come  as  you  ask  me,  and 
I  will  wrastle  with  that  boy  as  Jacob  did  of 
old  with  the  angel." 

"  Oh,  Brother  Simpson,  I  knowed  you  'd 
come.  I  know  jest  how  you  feel  about  pore 
wanderin'  souls,  an'  I  'm  so  glad  to  have 
yore  strong  arm  and  yore  wisdom  a-helpin' 
me." 

"  I  hope,  my  sister,  that  the  Lord  may 
smile  upon  my  poor  labours,  and  permit  us 
to  snatch  this  boy  as  a  brand  from  eternal 
burning." 

cc  We  shall  have  to  labour  in  the  sperrit, 
Brother  Simpson." 

"  Yes,  and  with  the  understanding  of  the 
truth  in  our  hearts  and  minds." 

"  I  'm  shore  I  feel  mighty  uplifted  by 
comin'  here  to-day.  Do  come  up  to  din 
ner  Sunday,  dear  Brother  Simpson,  after 
preachin'." 

"  I  will  come,  Sister  Prime,  I  will  come. 
I  know  by  experience  the  worth  of  the  table 
which  the  Lord  provides  for  you,  and  then 
at  the  same  season  I  may  be  able  to  sound 
this  sinful  boy  as  to  his  spiritual  state  and  to 


The  Uncalled 

drop  some  seed  into  the  ground  which  the 
Lord  has  mercifully  prepared  for  our  harvest. 
Good-bye,  sister,  good-bye.  I  shall  not  for 
get,  Sunday  after  preaching." 

In  accordance  with  his  promise,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Simpson  began  to  labour  with  Fred,  with 
the  result  of  driving  him  into  a  condition  of 
dogged  revolt,  which  only  Miss  Prime's  per 
sistence  finally  overcame.  When  revival 
time  came  round,  as,  sure  as  death  it  must 
come,  Fred  regularly  went  to  the  mourners' 
bench,  mourned  his  few  days  until  he  had 
worked  himself  into  the  proper  state,  and 
then,  somewhat  too  coldly,  it  is  true,  for  his 
anxious  guardian,  "  got  religion." 

On  the  visit  next  after  this  which  Mr. 
Simpson  paid  to  Miss  Prime,  he  took  occa 
sion  to  say,  "  Ah,  my  sister,  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  pointed  me  to  that  lost  lamb  of  the 
house  of  Israel,  and  I  am  thanking  the  Maker 
every  day  that  He  blessed  my  efforts  to  bring 
the  straying  one  into  the  fold.  Ah,  there 
is  more  joy  over  the  one  lamb  that  is  found 
than  over  the  ninety  and  nine  that  went  not 
astray ! " 

Mr.  Simpson's  parishioner  acquiesced,  but 
she  had  some  doubts  in  her  mind  as  to  whose 
efforts  the  Lord  had  blessed.  She  felt  a 


The  Uncalled        77 

little  bit  selfish.  She  wanted  to  be  the  author 
of  everything  good  that  came  to  Fred.  But 
she  did  not  argue  with  Mr.  Simpson.  There 
are  some  concessions  which  one  must  make 
to  one's  pastor. 

From  this  time  on  the  preacher  was  Fred's 
friend,  and  plied  him  with  good  advice  in  the 
usual  friendly  way  ;  but  the  boy  bore  it  well, 
for  Elizabeth  smiled  on  him,  and  what  boy 
would  not  bear  a  father's  tongue  for  a  girl's 
eyes  ? 

The  g[rl_waslike_her  mother,  dark  and 
slender  and  gentle.  She  had  none  of  her 
father's  bigness  or  bumptiousness.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  of  a  shade  that  was 
neither  black  nor  brown.  Her  hair  was  very 
decidedly  black.  Her  face  was  small,  and 
round  with  the  plumpness  of  youth,  but  one 
instinctively  felt,  in  looking  at  it,  that  its 
lines  might  easily  fall  into  thinness,  even 
pitifulness,  at  the  first  touch  of  woman's 
sorrow.  She  was  not,  nor  did  she  look  to 
be,  a  strong  girl.  But  her  very  weakness 
was  the  source  of  secret  delight  to  the  boy, 
for  it  made  him  feel  her  dependence  on  him. 
When  they  were  together  and  some  girlish 
fear  made  her  cling  to  his  arm,  his  heart 
swelled  with  pride  and  a  something  else  that 


78       The  Uncalled 

he  could  not  understand  and  could  not  have 
described.  Had  any  one  told  him  that  he 
was  going  through  the  half-sweet,  half-pain 
ful,  timid,  but  gallant  first  stages  of  love,  he 
would  have  resented  the  imputation  with 
blushes.  His  whole  training  would  have 
made  him  think  of  such  a  thing  with  terror. 
He  had  learned  never  to  speak  of  girls  at 
home,  for  any  reference  to  them  by  him  was 
sure  to  bring  forth  from  Miss  Prime  an 
instant  and  strong  rebuke. 

"  Freddie,"  was  the  exclamation  that  gave 
his  first  unsuspecting  remarks  pause,  "  you  're 
a-gittin'  too  fresh  :  you  'd  better  be  a-mindin' 
of  yore  studies,  instead  o*  thinkin'  about 
girls.  Girls  ain't  a-goin'  to  make  you  pass 
yore  examination,  an', besides,  you're  a-gettin' 
mannish  ;  fur  boys  o'  yore  age  to  be  a-talkin' 
about  girls  is  mannish,  do  you  hear,  sir  ? 
You  're  a-beginnin'  to  feel  yore  keepin'  too 
strong.  Don't  let  me  hear  no  more  sich 
talk  out  o'  you." 

There  never  was  a  manly  boy  in  the 
world  whom  the  word  "  mannish,"  when 
applied  to  him,  did  not  crush.  It  is  a  horrid 
word,  nasty  and  fulLoJLugly  import.  Fred 
was  subdued  by  it,  and  so  kept  silence  about 
his  female  friends.  Happy  is  the  boy  who 


The  Uncalled        79 

dares  at  home  to  pour  out  his  heart  about 
the  girls  he  knows  and  likes,  and  thrice  un 
happy  he  who  through  mistaken  zeal  on  the 
part  of  misguided   parents  is  compelled  to 
keep   his   thoughts  in  his   heart  and  brood 
upon  his  little  aproned  companions  as  upon 
a  secret  sin.     Two   things  are  thereby  en 
gendered,    stealth    and    unhealth.      If  Fred  | 
escaped-.certairL_youthfuL--pitfalls,  it  was  be-/ 
cause  he  was  so  repressed  that  he  had  learned/ 
to  hide  himself  from  himself,   his  thoughts 
from  the  mind  that  produced  them.  / 

He  was  a  boy  strong  and  full  of  blood. 
The  very  discipline  that  had  given  a  gloomy 
cast  to  his  mind  had  given  strength  and  for 
titude  to  his  body.  He  was  austere,  because 
austerity  was  all  that  he  had  ever  known  or 
had  a  chance  of  knowing ;  but  too  often 
austerityisbu^the  dam  that^holds  back  the 
flo.od  _qf_£ptential  jz^ssion.  Not  to  know 
the  power  which  rages  behind  the  barricade 
is.  to  leave  the  structure  weak  for  a  hapless 
day  when,"  carrying  all  before  it,  the  flood 
shall  break  its  bonds  and  in  its  fury  ruin  fair 
field  and  smiling  mead.  It  was  well  for 
Fred  Brent  that  the  awakening  came  when 
it  did. 

In  the  first  days  of  June,  when  examina- 


8o       The   Uncalled 

tions  are  over,  the  annual  exhibition  done, 
and  the  graduating  class  has  marched  away- 
proud  in  the  possession  of  its  diplomas,  the 
minds  of  all  concerned  turn  naturally  towards 
the  old  institution,  the  school  picnic.  On 
this  occasion  parents  join  the  teachers  and 
pupils  for  a  summer  day's  outing  in  the 
woods.  Great  are  the  preparations  for  the 
festal  day,  and  great  the  rejoicings  thereon. 
For  these  few  brief  hours  old  men  and 
women  lay  aside  their  cares  and  their  dig 
nity  and  become  boys  and  girls  again.  Those 
who  have  known  sorrow  —  and  who  has 
not  ?  —  take  to  themselves  a  day  of  forget 
ful  ness.  Great  baskets  are  loaded  to  over 
flowing  with  the  viands  dear  to  the  picnicker's 
palate,  — sandwiches  whose  corpulence  would 
make  their  sickly  brothers  of  the  railway 
restaurant  wither  with  envy,  pies  and  pickles, 
cheese  and  crackers,  cakes  and  jams  galore. 
Old  horses  that,  save  for  this  day,  know 
only  the  market-cart  or  the  Sunday  chaise, 
are  hitched  up  to  bear  out  the  merry  loads. 
Old  waggons,  whose  wheels  have  known  no 
other  decoration  than  the  mud  and  clay  of 
rutty  roads,  are  festooned  gaily  with  cedar 
wreaths,  oak  leaves,  or  the  gaudy  tissue- 
paper  rosettes,  and  creak  joyfully  on  their 


The  Uncalled        81 

mission  of  lightness  and  mirth.  On  foot, 
by  horse,  in  waggon  or  cart,  the  crowds  seek 
some  neighbouring  grove,  and  there  the  day 
is  given  over  to  laughter,  mirth,  and  song. 
The  children  roll  and  tumble  on  the  sward 
in  the  intoxication  of  "  swing-turn "  and 
"  ring-around-a-rosy."  The  young  women, 
with  many  blushes  and  shy  glances,  steal  off 
to  quiet  nooks  with  their  imploring  swains. 
Some  of  the  elders,  anxious  to  prove  that 
they  have  not  yet  lost  all  their  youth  and 
agility,  indulge,  rather  awkwardly  perhaps, 
in  the  exhausting  amusement  of  the  jump 
ing-rope.  A  few  of  the  more  staid  walk 
apart  in  conversation  with  some  favourite 
pastor  who  does  not  decline  to  take  part  in 
the  innocent  pleasures  and  crack  ponderous 
jokes  for  the  edification  of  his  followers. 
Perhaps  some  of  the  more  daring  are  en 
gaged  in  one  of  the  numerous  singing  plays, 
such  as  cc  Oh,  la,  Miss  Brown,"  or  "  Swing 
Candy,  Two  and  Two,"  but  these  are  gen 
erally  frowned  upon  :  they  are  too  much 
like  dancing,  and  time  has  been  when  some 
too  adventurous  church-member  has  been 
"  churched  "  for  engaging  in  one. 

In  such  a  merrymaking  was  the  commu 
nity  which    surrounded  the   high  school   at 


82       The  Uncalled 

Dexter  engaged  when  the  incident  occurred 
which  opened  Fred's  eyes  to  his  own  state. 
Both  he  and  Elizabeth  had  been  in  the  prize 
ranks  that  year,  and  their  friends  had  turned 
out  in  full  and  made  much  of  them.  Even 
Eliphalet  Hodges  was  there,  with  old  Bess 
festooned  as  gaily  as  the  other  horses,  and 
both  Miss  Prime  and  Mr.  Simpson  were  in 
evidence.  The  afternoon  of  the  day  was 
somewhat  advanced,  the  dinner  had  been 
long  over,  and  the  weariness  of  the  people 
had  cast  something  of  a  quietus  over  the 
hilarity  of  their  sports.  They  were  sitting 
about  in  groups,  chatting  and  laughing,  while 
the  tireless  children  were  scurrying  about  in 
games  of  "  tag/'  "  catcher,"  and  "  hide-and- 
seek." 

The  grove  where  the  festivities  were  being 
held  was  on  a  hill-side  which  sloped  gently 
to  the  bank  of  a  small,  narrow  stream,  usu 
ally  dry  in  summer ;  but  now,  still  feeling 
the  force  of  the  spring  freshets,  and  swollen 
by  the  rain  of  the  day  before,  it  was  rushing 
along  at  a  rapid  rate.  A  fence  divided  the 
picnic-ground  proper  from  the  sharper  slope 
of  the  rivulet's  bank.  This  fence  the 
young  people  had  been  warned  not  to  pass, 
and  so  no  danger  was  apprehended  on  ac- 


The  Uncalled        83 

count  of  the  stream's  overflowing  condition. 
But  the  youngsters  at  Dexter  were  no  more 
obedient  than  others  of  their  age  elsewhere. 
So  when  a  scream  arose  from  several  child 
ish  voices  at  the  lower  part  of  the  hill,  every 
body  knew  that  some  child  had  been 
disobeying,  and,  pell-mell,  the  picnickers 
rushed  in  the  direction  of  the  branch. 

When  they  reached  the  nearest  point 
from  which  they  could  see  the  stream,  a  ter 
rifying  sight  met  their  eyes.  A  girl  was 
struggling  in  the  shallow  but  swift  water. 
She  had  evidently  stepped  on  the  sloping 
bank  and  fallen  in.  Her  young  companions 
were  running  alongside  the  rivulet,  stretch 
ing  out  their  hands  helplessly  to  her,  but 
the  current  was  too  strong,  and,  try  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  keep  her  feet.  A  cry 
of  grief  and  despair  went  up  from  the  girls 
on  the  bank,  as  she  made  one  final  effort 
and  then  fell  and  was  carried  down  by  the 
current. 

Men  were  leaping  the  fence  now,  but  a 
boy  who  had  seen  the  whole  thing  from  a 
neighbouring  hillock  was  before  them.  Fred 
Brent  came  leaping  down  the  hill  like  a 
young  gazelle.  He  had  seen  who  the  un 
fortunate  girl  was,  —  Elizabeth,  —  and  he 


84       The  Uncalled 

had  but  one  desire  in  his  heart,  to  save  her. 
He  reached  the  bank  twenty  yards  ahead  of 
any  one  else,  and  plunged  into  the  water  just 
in  front  of  her,  for  she  was  catching  and 
slipping, clinging  and  losing  hold,  but  floating 
surely  to  her  death.  He  struggled  up  stream, 
reached  and  caught  her  by  the  dress.  The 
water  tugged  at  him  and  tried  to  throw  him 
over,  but  he  stemmed  it,  and,  lifting  her  up 
in  his  arms,  fought  his  way  manfully  to  the 
bank.  Up  this  he  faltered,  slipping  and 
sliding  in  the  wet  clay,  and  weak  with  his 
struggle  against  the  strong  current.  But  his 
face  was  burning  and  his  blood  tingling  as 
he  held  the  girl  close  to  him  till  he  gave  her 
unconscious  form  into  her  father's  arms. 

For  the  moment  all  was  confusion,  as  was 
natural  when  a  preacher's  daughter  was  so 
nearly  drowned.  The  crowd  clustered  around 
and  gave  much  advice  and  some  restoratives. 
Some  unregenerate,  with  many  apologies  and 
explanations  concerning  his  possession,  pro 
duced  a  flask,  and  part  of  the  whisky  was 
forced  down  the  girl's  throat,  while  her 
hands  and  face  and  feet  were  chafed.  She 
opened  her  eyes  at  last,  and  a  fervent 
"  Thank  God  !  "  burst  from  her  father's  lips 
and  called  forth  a  shower  of  Atnens. 


The  Uncalled        85 

"  I  allus  carry  a  little  somethin'  along,  in 
case  of  emergencies,"  explained  the  owner 
of  the  flask  as  he  returned  it  to  his  pocket, 
with  a  not  altogether  happy  look  at  its 
depleted  contents. 

As  soon  as  Fred  saw  that  Elizabeth  was 
safe,  he  struck  away  for  home,  unobserved, 
and  without  waiting  to  hear  what  the  crowd 
were  saying.  He  heard  people  calling  his  name 
kindly  and  admiringly,  but  it  only  gave  wings 
to  the  feet  that  took  him  away  from  them. 
If  he  had  thrown  the  girl  in  instead  of  bring 
ing  her  out,  he  could  not  have  fled  more 
swiftly  or  determinedly  away  from  the  eyes 
of  people.  Tired  and  footsore,  drenched 
to  the  skin  and  chilled  through,  he  finally 
reached  home.  He  was  trembling,  he  was 
crying,  but  he  did  not  know  it,  and  had  he 
known,  he  could  not  have  told  why.  He 
did  not  change  his  clothes,  but  crouched 
down  in  a  corner  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  He  dreaded  seeing  any  one  or  hear 
ing  any  person  speak  his  name.  He  felt 
painfully  conscious  of  a  new  self,  which  he 
thought  must  be  apparent  to  other  eyes. 

The  accident  of  the  afternoon  had  cast 
a  gloom  over  the  merrymakings,  and,  the 
picnic  breaking  up  abruptly,  sent  the  people 


86        The  Uncalled 

scurrying  home,  so  that  Miss  Prime  was  at 
the  house  not  far  behind  her  charge. 

"  Freddie,"  she  called  to  him  as  she  en 
tered  the  house,  "  Freddie,  where  air  you  ?  " 
And  then  she  found  him.  She  led  him  out 
of  the  corner  and  looked  him  over  with  a 
scrutinising  eye.  "  Freddie  Brent/'  she 
said  solemnly,  "  you  've  jest  ruined  yore 
suit/'  He  was  glad.  He  wanted  to  be 
scolded.  "  But,"  she  went  on,  "  I  don't 
care  ef  you  have."  And  here  she  broke 
down.  "  You  're  a-goin'  to  have  another 
one,  fur  you  're  a  right  smart  boy,  that 's  all 
I  've  got  to  say."  For  a  moment  he  wanted 
to  lay  his  head  on  her  breast  and  give  vent 
to  the  sob  which  was  choking  him.  But  he 
had  been  taught  neither  tenderness  nor  con 
fidence,  so  he  choked  back  the  sob,  though 
his  throat  felt  dry  and  hot  and  strained. 
He  stood  silent  and  embarrassed  until  Miss 
Prime  recovered  herself  and  continued: 
"  But  la,  child,  you  '11  take  yore  death  o'  cold. 
Git  out  o'  them  wet  things  an'  git  into  bed, 
while  I  make  you  some  hot  tea.  Fur  the 
life  o'  me,  I  never  did  see  sich  carryin's-on." 

The  boy  was  not  sorry  to  obey.  He 
was  glad  to  be  alone.  He  drank  the  warm 
tea  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  but  he  could 


The  Uncalled       87 

not.  His  mind  was  on  fire.  His  heart 
seemed  as  if  it  would  burst  from  his  bosom. 
Something  new  had  come  to  him.  He 
began  to  understand,  and  blushed  because 
he  did  understand.  It  was  less  discovery 
than  revelation.  His  forehead  was  hot. 
His  temples  were  throbbing.  It  was  well 
that  Miss  Prime  did  not  discover  it :  she 
would  have  given  him  horehound  to  cure 

—  thought ! 

From  the  moment  that  the  boy  held  the 
form  of  the  girl  to  his  heart  he  was  changed, 
and  she  was  changed  to  him.  They  could 
never  be  the  same  to  each  other  again. 
Manhood  had  come  to  him  in  a  single  in 
stant,  and  he  saw  in  her  womanhood.  He 
began  for  the  first  time  to  really  know  him 
self,  and  it  frightened  him  and  made  him 
ashamed. 

He  drew  the  covers  over  his  head  and 
lay  awake,  startled,  surprised  at  what  he 
knew  himself  and  mankind  to  be. 

To  Fred  Brent  the  awakening  had  come, 

—  early,  if  we  would  be  prudish ;  not   too 
early,  if  we  would  be  truthful. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IF  Fred  Brent  had  needed  anything  to 
increase  his  consciousness  of  the  new 
feeling  that  had  come  to  him,  he  could  not 
have  done  better  to  get  it  than  by  going  to 
see  Eliphalet  Hodges  next  day.  His  war 
of  thought  had  gone  on  all  night,  and  when 
he  rose  in  the  morning  he  thought  that  he 
looked  guilty,  and  he  was  afraid  that  Miss 
Prime  would  notice  it  and  read  his  secret. 
He  wanted  rest.  He  wanted  to  be  secure 
from  any  one  who  would  even  suspect  what 
was  in  his  heart.  But  he  wanted  to  see  and 
to  talk  to  some  one.  Who  better,  then, 
than  his  old  friend  ? 

So  he  finished  his  morning's  chores  and 
slipped  away.  He  would  not  pass  by 
Elizabeth's  house,  but  went  by  alleys  and 
lanes  until  he  reached  his  destination.  The 
house  looked  rather  silent  and  deserted, 
and  Mr.  Hodges'  old  assistant  did  not 
seem  to  be  working  in  the  garden  as  usual. 
But  after  some  search  the  boy  found  his 
old  friend  smoking  upon  the  back  porch. 


The  Uncalled        89 

There  was  a  cloud  upon  the  usually  bright 
features,  and  the  old  man  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  with  a  disconsolate  sigh  as 
the  boy  came  in  sight. 

"  I  'm  mighty  glad  you  've  come,  Fred 
die,"  said  he,  in  a  sad  voice.  "  I  've  been 
a-wantin'  to  talk  to  you  all  the  mornin'. 
Set  down  on  the  side  o'  the  porch,  or  git 
a  chair  out  o'  the  house,  ef  you  'd  ruther." 

The  boy  sat  down,  wondering  what  could 
be  the  matter  with  his  friend,  and  what  he 
could  have  to  say  to  him.  Surely  it  must 
be  something  serious,  for  the  whole  tone 
and  manner  of  his  companion  indicated 
something  of  import.  The  next  remark 
startled  him  into  sudden  suspicion. 

"  There  's  lots  o'  things  made  me  think  o' 
lots  of  other  things  in  the  last  couple  o'  days. 
You  Ve  grown  up  kind  o'  quick  like,  Freddie, 
so  that  a  body  'ain't  hardly  noticed  it,  but 
that  ain't  no  matter.  You  're  up  or  purty 
nigh  it,  an'  you  can  understand  and  appreciate 
lots  o'  the  things  that  you  used  to  could  n't." 

Fred  sat  still,  with  mystery  and  embar 
rassment  written  on  his  face.  He  wanted 
to  hear  more,  but  he  was  almost  afraid  to 
listen  further. 

"  I  'ain't  watched  you  so  close,  mebbe,  as 


po        The  Uncalled 

I  'd  ought  to  'a'  done,  but  when  I  seen  you 
yistiddy  evenin'  holdin'  that  little  girl  in 
yore  arms  I  said  to  myself,  I  said, c  'Liphalet 
Hodges,  Freddie  ain't  a  child  no  more ; 
he 's  growed  up.'  '  The  boy's  face  was 
scarlet.  Now  he  was  sure  that  the  thoughts 
of  his  heart  had  been  surprised,  and  that 
this  best  of  friends  thought  of  him  as 
"  fresh,"  "  mannish,"  or  even  wicked.  He 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  it;  again  the 
tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  usually  so  free  from 
such  evidences  of  weakness.  But  the  old 
man  went  on  slowly  in  a  low,  half-reminis 
cent  tone,  without  looking  at  his  auditor 
to  see  what  effect  his  words  had  had. 
"Well,  that  was  one  of  the  things  that 
set  me  thinkin' ;  an*  then  there  was  an 
other."  He  cleared  his  throat  and  pulled 
hard  at  his  pipe ;  something  made  him 
blink,  —  dust,  or  smoke,  or  tears,  perhaps. 
"  Freddie,"  he  half  sobbed  out,  "  old  Bess 
is  dead.  Pore  old  Bess  died  last  night  o' 
colic.  I  'm  afeared  the  drive  to  the  picnic 
was  too  much  fur  her." 

"  Old  Bess  dead !  "  cried  the  boy,  grieved 
and  at  the  same  time  relieved.  "  Who  would 
have  thought  it  ?  Poor  old  girl!  It  seems 
like  losing  one  of  the  family." 


The  Uncalled        91 

"  She  was  one  of  the  family/'  said  the  old 
man  brokenly.  "  She  was  more  faithful 
than  most  human  beings."  The  two  stood 
sadly  musing,  the  boy  as  sad  as  the  man. 
"Old  Bess"  was  the  horse  that  had  taken 
him  for  his  first  ride,  that  winter  morning 
years  before,  when  the  heart  of  the  child  was 
as  cold  as  the  day.  Eliphalet  Hodges  had 
warmed  the  little  heart,  and,  in  the  years 
that  followed,  man,  child,  and  horse  had 
grown  nearer  to  each  other  in  a  queer  but 
sympathetic  companionship. 

Then,  as  if  recalling  his  mind  from  pain 
ful  reflections,  the  elder  man  spoke  again. 
"  But  it  ain't  no  use  a-worryin'  over  what 
can't  be  helped.  We  was  both  fond  o'  old 
Bess,  an'  I  know  you  feel  as  bad  about  losin' 
her  as  I  do.  But  I  'm  a-goin'  to  give  her  a 
decent  burial,  sich  as  a  Christian  ought  to 
have  ;  fur,  while  the  old  mare  was  n't  no  per- 
fessor,  she  lived  the  life,  an'  that's  more 'n 
most  perfessors  do.  Yes,  sir,  I  'm  a-goin'  to 
have  her  buried :  no  glue-man  fur  me.  I 
reckon  you  're  a-wantin'  to  know  how  old 
Bess  dyin'  an'  yore  a-savin'  'Lizabeth  could 
run  into  each  other  in  my  mind ;  but  they 
did.  Fur,  as  I  see  you  standin'  there  a- 
holdin'  the  little  girl,  it  come  to  me  sudden 


92        The  Uncalled 

like,  ( Freddie's  grown  now,  an*  he  '11  be 
havin'  a  girl  of  his  own  purty  soon,  ef  he 
'ain't  got  one  now.  Mebbe  it  '11  be  'Liza- 
beth.'  '  The  old  man  paused  for  a  moment ; 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  boy's  fiery  face.  "Tut, 
tut,"  he  resumed,  "  you  ain't  ashamed,  air 
you  ?  Well,  what  air  you  a-gittin'  so  red 
fur  ?  Havin'  a  girl  ain't  nothin'  to  be 
ashamed  of,  or  skeered  about  neither.  Most 
people  have  girls  one  time  or  another,  an'  I 
don't  know  of  nothin'  that  '11  make  a  boy  or 
a  young  man  go  straighter  than  to  know 
that  his  girl's  eyes  air  upon  him.  Don't  be 
ashamed  at  all." 

Fred  still  blushed,  but  he  felt  better,  and 
his  face  lightened  over  the  kindly  words. 

"  I  did  n't  finish  tellin'  you,  though,  what 
I  started  on.  I  got  to  thinkin'  yesterday 
about  my  young  days,  when  I  had  a  girl,  an' 
how  I  used  to  ride  back  an'  forth  on  the 
pore  old  horse  right  into  this  town  to  see 
her ;  an*  as  I  drove  home  from  the  picnic  I 
talked  to  the  old  nag  about  it,  an'  she  whisked 
her  tail  an'  laid  back  her  ears,  jest  like  she 
remembered  it  all.  It  was  on  old  Bess  that 
I  rode  away  from  my  girl's  house  after  her 
first  'no'  to  me,  an'  it  seemed  then  that  the 
animal  sympathised  with  me,  fur  she  drooped 


The  Uncalled        93 

along  an*  held  down  her  head  jest  like  I  was 
a-doin'.  Many  a  time  after  that  we  rode  off 
that  way  together,  fur  the  girl  was  set  in  her 
ways,  an'  though  she  confessed  to  a  hankerin' 
fur  me,  she  wanted  to  be  independent.  I 
think  her  father  put  the  idee  into  her  head, 
fur  he  was  a  hard  man,  an*  she  was  his  all, 
his  wife  bein'  dead.  After  a  while  we  stopped 
talkin'  about  the  matter,  an'  I  jest  went  an' 
come  as  a  friend.  I  only  popped  the  ques 
tion  once  more,  an'  that  was  when  her  father 
died  an'  she  was  left  all  alone. 

"  It  was  a  summer  day,  warm  an'  cheerful 
like  this,  only  it  was  evenin',  an'  we  was  a- 
settin'  out  on  her  front  garden  walk.  She 
was  a-knittin',  an'  I  was  a-whippin'  the  groun' 
with  a  switch  that  I  had  brought  along  to 
touch  Bess  up  with  now  an'  then.  I  had 
hitched  her  out  front,  an'  she  kep'  a-turnin' 
her  eyes  over  the  fence  as  ef  she  was  as  anx 
ious  as  I  was,  an'  that  was  mighty  anxious. 
Fin'ly  I  got  the  question  out,  an'  the  girl 
went  all  red  in  a  minute :  she  had  been  jest 
a  purty  pink  before.  Her  knittin'  fell  in  her 
lap.  Fust  she  started  to  answer,  then  she 
stopped  an'  her  eyes  filled  up.  I  seen  she 
was  a-weak'nin',  so  I  thought  I  'd  push  the 
matter.  '  Come,'  says  I,  gentle  like,  an7 


94       The  Uncalled 

edgin'  near  up  to  her,  c  give  me  my  answer. 
I  been  waitin'  a  long  time  fur  a  yes.'  With 
that  she  grabbed  knittin',  apron,  an'  all,  an' 
put  'em  to  her  eyes  an'  rushed  into  the 
house.  I  knowed  she  'd  gone  in  to  have  a 
good  cry  an'  settle  her  nerves,  fur  that's  the 
way  all  women-folks  does  :  so  I  knowed  it 
was  no  use  to  bother  her  until  it  was  done. 
So  I  walks  out  to  the  fence,  an',  throwin'  an 
arm  over  old  Bess's  back,  I  told  her  all 
about  it,  jest  as  I  'm  a-tellin'  you,  she  a- 
lookin'  at  me  with  her  big  meltin'  eyes  an' 
whinnyin'  soft  like. 

"After  a  little  while  the  girl  come  out. 
She  was  herself  ag'in,  but  there  was  a  look 
in  her  face  that  turned  my  heart  stone-cold. 
Her  voice  sounded  kind  o'  sharp  as  she  said, 
c'Liphalet,  I've  been  a-thinkin'  over  what 
you  said.  I  'm  only  a  woman,  an'  I  come 
purty  near  bein'  a  weak  one ;  but  I  'm  all 
right  now.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you  that  ef 
I  was  ever  goin'  to  marry,  you  'd  be  my 
choice,  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  my  father's 
sperrit  a-thinkin'  that  1  took  advantage  of 
his  death  to  marry  you.  Good-bye,  'Lipha- 
let.'  She  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  an'  I 
took  it.  f  Come  an'  see  me  sometimes,'  she 
said.  I  could  n't  answer,  so  I  went  out  and 


The  Uncalled       95 

got  on  old  Bess  an'  we  jogged  away.  It  was 
an  awful  disappointment,  but  I  thought  I 
would  wait  an'  let  my  girl  come  aroun',  fur 
sometimes  they  do,  —  in  fact  mostly;  but 
she  has  never  give  me  a  sign  to  make  me 
think  that  she  has.  That  was  twenty  years 
ago,  an'  I  've  been  waitin'  faithful  ever  sence. 
But  it  seems  like  she  was  different  from  most 
women,  an*  'specially  good  on  holdin'  out. 
People  that  was  babies  then  have  growed 
up  an'  married.  An'  now  the  old  com 
panion  that  has  been  with  me  through  all 
this  waitin'  has  left  me.  I  know  what  it 
means.  It  means  that  I  'm  old,  that  years 
have  been  wasted,  that  chances  have  been 
lost.  But  you  have  taught  me  my  lesson, 
Bess.  Dear  old  Bess,  even  in  yore  last  hours 
you  did  me  a  service,  an'  you,  Freddie,  you 
have  given  me  the  stren'th  that  I  had  twenty 
years  ago,  an'  I  'm  a-goin'  to  try  to  save  what 
remains  of  my  life.  I  never  felt  how  alone 
I  was  until  now."  He  was  greatly  agitated. 
He  rose  and  grasped  the  boy's  arm.  "  Come, 
Freddie,"  he  said  ;  "  come  on.  I  'm  a-goin' 
ag'in  to  ask  Miss  Prime  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Miss  Prime  !  "  exclaimed  Fred,  aghast. 

"  Miss  Prime  was  my  sweetheart,  Freddie, 
thirty  years  ago,  jest  like  'Lizabeth  is  yor'n 
now.  Come  along." 


96        The  Uncalled 

The  two  set  out,  Hodges  stepping  with 
impatient  alacrity,  and  the  boy  too  astounded 
to  speak. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  at  the  end  of 
June.  The  sense  of  spring's  reviving  influ 
ence  had  not  yet  given  way  to  the  full  languor 
and  sensuousness  of  summer.  The  wind 
was  soft  and  warm  and  fragrant.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  song  of  birds  and  the  low 
droning  of  early  bees.  The  river  that  flowed 
between  the  green  hills  and  down  through 
Dexter  was  like  a  pane  of  wrinkled  glass, 
letting  light  and  joy  even  into  the  regions 
below.  Over  the  streets  and  meadows  and 
hills  lay  a  half  haze,  like  a  veil  over  the  too 
dazzling  beauty  of  an  Eastern  princess.  The 
hum  of  business  —  for  in  the  passing  years 
Dexter  had  grown  busy  —  the  roar  of  traffic 
in  the  streets,  all  melted  into  a  confused 
and  intoxicating  murmur  as  the  pedestrians 
passed  into  the  residence  portion  of  the  town 
to  the  cottage  where  Miss  Prime  still  lived. 
The  garden  was  as  prim  as  ever,  the  walks 
as  straight  and  well  kept.  The  inevitable 
white  curtains  were  fluttering  freshly  from 
the  window,  over  which  a  huge  matrimony 
vine  drooped  lazily  and  rung  its  pink  and 
white  bells  to  invite  the  passing  bees. 


The  Uncalled        97 

Eliphalet  paused  at  the  gate  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.  So  much  depended  upon  the 
issue  of  his  present  visit.  The  stream  of 
his  life  had  been  flowing  so  smoothly  before. 
Now  if  its  tranquillity  were  disturbed  it 
never  could  be  stilled  again.  Did  he  dare 
to  risk  so  much  upon  so  hazardous  a 
chance  ?  Were  it  not  better  to  go  back 
home,  back  to  his  old  habits  and  his  old 
ease,  without  knowing  his  fate  ?  That 
would  at  least  leave  him  the  pleasure  of 
speculating.  He  might  delude  himself  with 
the  hope  that  some  day  —  He  faltered, 
His  hand  was  on  the  gate,  but  his  face  was 
turned  back  towards  the  way  he  had  come. 
Should  he  enter,  or  should  he  go  back  ? 
Fate  decided  for  him,  for  at  this  juncture 
the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Hester  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  called  out,  "  Do  come 
in,  'Liphalet.  What  air  you  a-standin'  out 
there  so  long  a-studyin'  about,  fur  all  the 
world  like  a  bashful  boy  ?  " 

The  shot  told.  He  was  a  bashful  boy 
again,  going  fearfully,  tremblingly,  lovingly, 
to  see  the  girl  of  his  heart ;  but  there  was 
no  old  Bess  to  whinny  encouragement  to 
him  from  over  the  little  fence.  If  he 
blushed,  even  the  scrutinising  eyes  of  Miss 
7 


98        The  Uncalled 

Prime  did  not  see  it,  for  the  bronze  laid  on 
his  face  by  summers  and  winters  of  expos 
ure  ;  but  he  felt  the  hot  blood  rush  up  to 
his  face  and  neck,  and  the  perspiration 
breaking  out  on  his  brow.  He  paused  long 
enough  to  mop  his  face,  and  then,  saying  to 
Fred,  in  a  low  tone,  "  You  stay  in  the  gar 
den,  my  boy,  until  it 's  all  over,"  he  opened 
the  gate  and  entered  in  the  manner  of  one 
who  leads  a  forlorn  hope  through  forest 
aisles  where  an  ambush  is  suspected.  The 
door  closed  behind  him.  Interested,  ex 
cited,  wondering  and  fearing,  doubting  and 
hoping,  Fred  remained  in  the  garden. 
There  were  but  two  thoughts  in  his  head, 
and  they  were  so  new  and  large  that  his 
poor  boy's  cranium  had  room  for  no  more. 
They  ran  in  this  wise :  "  Miss  Prime  is 
Uncle  'Liphalet's  girl,  and  Elizabeth  is 
mine." 

Within,  Miss  Prime  was  talking  on  in 
her  usual  decided  fashion,  while  the  man  sat 
upon  the  edge  of  his  chair  and  wondered 
how  he  could  break  in  upon  the  stream  of 
her  talk  and  say  what  was  in  his  heart.  At 
last  the  lady  exclaimed,  "  I  do  declare,  'Liph- 
alet,  what  kin  be  the  matter  with  you  ? 
You  'ain't  said  ten  words  sence  you  've  been 


The  Uncalled        99 

a-settin'  there.  I  hope  you  'ain't  talked 
yoreself  entirely  out  with  Fred.  It  does 
beat  all  how  you  an'  that  boy  seem  to  grow 
thicker  an'  thicker  every  day.  One  'ud 
think  fur  all  the  world  that  you  told  him 
all  yore  secrets,  an'  was  afeared  he  'd  tell 
'em,  by  the  way  you  stick  by  him  ;  an'  he  's 
jest  as  bad  about  you.  It 's  amazin'." 

"  Freddie 's  a  wonderful  good  boy,  an' 
he 's  smart,  too.  They  ain't  none  of  'em 
a-goin'  to  throw  dust  in  his  eyes  in  the  race 
of  life." 

"  I  'm  shore  I  Ve  tried  to  do  my  dooty 
by  him  the  very  best  I  could,  an'  ef  he  does 
amount  to  anything  in  this  world  it  '11  be 
through  hard  labour  an'  mighty  careful 
watchin'."  Miss  Hester  gave  a  sigh  that 
was  meant  to  be  full  of  solemnity,  but  that 
positively  reeked  with  self-satisfaction. 

"But  as  you  say,  'Liphalet,"  she  went 
on,  "  Fred  ain't  the  worst  boy  in  the  world, 
nor  the  dumbest  neither,  ef  I  do  say  it  my 
self.  I  ain't  a-sayin',  mind  you,  that  he  's 
anything  so  great  or  wonderful  ;  but  I  Ve 
got  to  thinkin'  that  there 's  somethin'  in 
him  besides  original  sin,  an'  I  should  feel 
that  the  Lord  had  been  mighty  favourin'  to 
me  ef  I  could  manage  to  draw  it  out.  The 


ioo      The  Uncalled 

fact  of  it  is,  'Liphalet,  I  Ve  took  a  notion  in 
my  head  about  Fred,  an'  I  'in  a-goin'  to  tell 
you  what  it  is.  I  Ve  decided  to  make  a 
preacher  out  o'  him." 

"H'm —  ah  —  well,  Miss  Hester,  don't 
you  think  you  'd  better  let  the  Lord  do 
that  ? " 

"  Nonsense,  'Liphalet!  you  'ain't  got  no 
insight  at  all.  I  believe  in  people  a-doin' 
their  part  an'  not  a-shovin'  everything  off 
on  the  Lord.  The  shiftless  don't  want 
nothin'  better  than  to  say  that  they  will 
leave  the  Lord  to  take  care  o'  things,  an' 
then  fold  their  arms  an'  set  down  an'  let 
things  go  to  the  devil.  Remember,  Brother 
Hodges,  I  don't  mean  that  in  a  perfane 
way.  But  then,  because  God  made  the  sun 
light  an'  the  rain,  it  ain't  no  sign  that  we 
should  n't  prune  the  vine." 

Miss  Hester's  face  had  flushed  up  with 
the  animation  of  her  talk,  and  her  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  excitement. 

Eliphalet  looked  at  her,  and  his  heart 
leaped.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to 
speak. 

"  Miss  Hester,"  he  began,  and  the  hat  in 
his  hand  went  round  and  round  nervously. 

"'Liphalet,    fur   goodness'    sake    do    lay 


The  Uncalled      101 

yore    hat    on    the   table.     You  '11    ruin    the 
band  of  it,  an'  you  make  me  as  nervous  as 


a  cat." 


He  felt  a  little  dampened  after  this,  but 
he  laid  down  the  offending  hat  and  began 
again.  "  I  've  been  thinkin'  some  myself, 
Miss  Hester,  an'  it 's  been  about  you." 

"About  me?  La,  'Liphalet,  what  have 
you  been  a-thinkin'  now?"  The  "now" 
sounded  as  if  his  thoughts  were  usually 
rather  irresponsible. 

"  It  was  about  you  an'  —  an'  — old  Bess." 

"About  me  an'  old  Bess!  Bless  my 
soul,  man,  will  you  stop  beatin'  about  the 
bush  an'  tell  me  what  on  airth  I  've  got  to 
do  with  yore  horse  ?  " 

"Old  Bess  is  dead,  Miss  Hester;  died 
last  night  o'  colic." 

"  Well,  I  thought  there  was  somethin' 
the  matter  with  you.  I  'm  mighty  sorry  to 
hear  about  the  poor  old  creatur ;  but  she  'd 
served  you  a  long  while." 

"  That 's  jest  what  set  me  a-thinkin'  :  she 
has  served  me  a  long  while,  an'  now  she  's 
dead.  Do  you  know  what  that  means, 
Miss  Hester  ?  It  means  that  we  're  a-gittin' 
old,  you  an'  me.  Do  you  know  when  I 
got  old  Bess  ?  It  was  nigh  thirty  years 


The  Uncalled 

ago:  I  used  to  ride  her  up  to  this  door  an* 
tie  her  to  that  tree  out  there  :  it  was  a 
saplin'  then.  An'  now  she  's  dead." 

The  man's  voice  trembled,  and  his  listener 
was  strangely  silent. 

"  You  know  on  what  errands  the  old  horse 
used  to  bring  me,"  he  went  on,  "  but  it 
wasn't  to  be,  —  then.  Hester,"  he  rose, 
went  over  to  her,  and  looked  down  into  her 
half-averted  face,  which  went  red  and  pale  by 
turns,  —  "Hester,  'ain't  we  wasted  time 
enough  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  she  lifted 
her  face :  he  stood  watching  her  with  the 
light  of  a  great  eagerness  in  his  eyes.  At 
last  she  spoke.  There  was  a  catch  in  her 
voice ;  it  was  softer  than  usual. 

"  'Liphalet,"  she  began,  "  I  'm  right  glad 
you  remember  those  days.  I  'ain't  never 
furgot  'em  myself.  It's  true  you  've  been  a 
good,  loyal  friend  to  me,  an'  I  thank  you  fur 
it,  but,  after  all  these  years  —  " 

He  broke  in  upon  her  with  something  like 
youthful  impetuosity.  "After  all  these 
years,"  he  exclaimed,  "  an  endurin'  love 
ought  to  be  rewarded.  Hester,  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  take  c  no '  fur  an  answer.  I  've  got 
lots  o'  years  o'  life  in  me  yet,  —  we  both 


The  Uncalled      103 

have,  —  an*  I  ain't  a-goin'  on  with  an  empty 
home  an'  an  empty  heart  no  longer." 

"'Liphalet,  you  ain't  a  young  man  no 
more,  an'  I  ain't  a  young  woman,  an'  the 
Lord  —  " 

"  I  don't  care  ef  I  ain't ;  an'  I  don't  believe 
in  shovin'  everything  off  on  the  Lord." 

"  'Liphalet !  "     It  was  a  reproach. 

"  Hester  !  "  This  was  love.  He  put  his 
arm  around  her  and  kissed  her.  "  You  're 
a-goin'  to  say  yes,  ain't  you  ?  You  ain't 
a-goin'  to  send  me  away  miserable  ?  You  're 
a-dyin'  to  say  yes,  but  you  're  a-tryin  to 
force  yoreself  not  to.  Don't."  He  lifted 
her  face  as  a  young  lover  might,  and  looked 
down  into  her  eyes.  "  Is  it  yes  ?  " 

"  Well,  'Liphalet  it  'pears  like  you  're 
jest  so  pesterin'  that  I  've  got  to  say  yes. 
Yes,  then."  And  she  returned  the  quiet  but 
jubilant  kiss  that  he  laid  upon  her  lips. 

"  After  all  these  years,"  he  said.  "  Sor 
row  may  last  fur  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in 
the  mornin'.  It  was  a  long  night,  but,  thank 
the  Lord,  mornin'  's  broke."  Then,  rising, 
he  went  to  the  door  and  called  joyously, 
"  Freddie,  come  on  in  :  it 's  all  over." 

"'Liphalet,  did  that  boy  know  what  you 
was  a-goin'  to  say  ?  " 


104     The  Uncalled 

"  Yes,  o'  course  he  did." 

"  Oh,  my  !  oh,  my  !  Well,  I  Ve  got  a 
good  mind  to  take  it  all  back.  Oh,  my  !  " 
And  when  Fred  came  in,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  Miss  Prime  was  abashed  and  con 
fused  in  his  presence. 

But  Eliphalet  had  no  thought  of  shame. 
He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  Fred 
die,  Miss  Hester 's  consented  at  last :  after 
thirty  years,  she  's  a-goin'  to  marry  me." 

But  Miss  Hester  broke  in,  "'Liphalet, 
don't  be  a-puttin'  notions  in  that  boy's  head. 
You  go  'way,  Fred,  right  away." 

Fred  went  out,  but  he  felt  bolder.  He 
went  past  Elizabeth's  house  whistling.  He 
did  n't  care.  He  wondered  if  he  would  have 
to  wait  thirty  years  for  her.  He  hoped  not. 


CHAPTER   IX 

SO  great  has  been  our  absorption  in  the 
careers  of  Fred  Brent,  Miss  Prime, 
and  Eliphalet  Hodges  that  we  have  sadly 
neglected  some  of  the  characters  whose  ac 
quaintance  we  made  at  the  beginning  of  our 
story.  But  nature  and  Time  have  been 
kinder,  —  or  more  cruel,  if  you  will.  They 
have  neither  passed  over  nor  neglected  them. 
They  have  combined  with  trouble  and  hard 
work  to  kill  one  of  Fred's  earliest  friends. 
Melissa  Davis  is  no  more,  and  the  oldest 
girl,  Sophy,  supplements  her  day's  work  of 
saleswoman  in  a  dry-goods  store  by  getting 
supper  in  the  evening  and  making  the 
younger  Davises  step  around.  Mrs.  War 
ren,  the  sometime  friend  of  Margaret  Brent 
and  enemy  of  Miss  Prime,  has  moved  farther 
out,  into  the  suburbs,  for  Dexter  has  suburbs 
now,  and  boasts  electric  cars  and  amusement 
parks.  Time  has  done  much  for  the  town. 
Its  streets  are  paved,  and  the  mean  street 
that  bore  the  tumble-down  Brent  cottage 


106     The  Uncalled 

and  its  fellows  has  been  built  up  and  grown 
respectable.  It  and  the  street  where  Miss 
Prime's  cottage  frowned  down  have  settled 
away  into  a  quiet  residential  portion  of  the 
town,  while  around  to  the  east,  south,  and 
west,  and  on  both  sides  of  the  little  river 
that  divides  the  city,  roars  and  surges  the 
traffic  of  a  diaraclejisticj^ddJe-W^st^  town. 
Half-way  up  the  hill,  where  the  few  aristo 
crats  of  the  place  formerly  lived  in  almost 
royal  luxuriance  and  seclusion,  a  busy  sewing- 
machine  factory  has  forced  its  way,  and  with 
its  numerous  chimneys  and  stacks  literally 
smoked  the  occupants  out ;  at  their  very 
gates  it  sits  like  the  commander  of  a  besieg 
ing  army,  and  about  it  cluster  the  cottages  of 
the  workmen,  in  military  regularity.  Little 
and  neat  and  trim,  they  flock  there  like  the 
commander's  obedient  host,  and  such  they 
are,  for  the  sight  of  them  offends  the  eyes  of 
wealth.  So,  what  with  the  smoke,  and  what 
with  the  proximity  of  the  poorer  classes, 
wealth  capitulates,  evacuates,  and,  with  robes 
discreetly  held  aside,  passes  by  to  another 
quarter,  and  a  new  district  is  born  where 
poverty  dare  not  penetrate.  Seated  on  a  hill, 
where,  as  is  their  inclination,  they  may  look 
down,  literally  and  figuratively,  upon  the 


The  Uncalled      107 

hurrying  town,  they  are  complacent  again, 
and  the  new-comers  to  the  town,  the  new-rich 
magnates  and  the  half-rich  strugglers  who 
would  be  counted  on  the  higher  level,  move 
up  and  swell  their  numbers  at  Dexter  View. 

Amid  all  this  change,  two  alone  of  those 
we  know  remain  unaltered  and  unalterable, 
true  to  their  traditions.  Mrs.  Smith  and 
Mrs.  Martin,  the  two  ancient  gossips,  still 
live  side  by  side,  spying  and  commenting  on 
all  that  falls  within  their  ken,  much  as  they 
did  on  that  day  when  'Liphalet  Hodges  took 
Fred  Brent  for  his  first  drive  behind  old 
Bess.  Their  windows  still  open  out  in  the 
same  old  way,  whence  they  can  watch  the 
happenings  of  the  street.  If  there  has  been 
any  change  in  them  at  all,  it  is  that  they  have 
grown  more  absorbed  and  more  keen  in  fol 
lowing  and  dissecting  their  neighbours'  affairs. 

It  is  to  these  two  worthies,  then,  that  we 
wish  to  reintroduce  the  reader  on  an  early 
autumn  evening  some  three  months  after  the 
events  narrated  in  the  last  chapter. 

Mrs.  Martin  went  to  her  back  fence, 
which  was  the  nearest  point  of  communica 
tion  between  her  and  her  neighbour.  "  Mis' 
Smith,"  she  called,  and  her  confederate  came 
hurrying  to  the  door,  thimble  on  and  a  bit 


io8     The  Uncalled 

of  sewing  clutched  precariously  in  her  apron, 
just  as  she  had  caught  it  up  when  the  signifi 
cant  call  brought  her  to  the  back  door. 

cc  Oh,  you  're  busy  as  usual,  I  see,"  said 
Mrs.  Martin. 

"  It  ain't  nothin'  partic'ler,  only  a  bit  o' 
bastin'  that  I  was  doin'." 

"  You  ain't  a-workin'  on  the  machine, 
then,  so  you  might  bring  your  sewin'  over 
and  take  a  cup  o'  tea  with  me." 

"  La  !  now  that 's  so  kind  o'  you,  Mis' 
Martin.  I  was  jest  thinkin'  how  good  a 
cup  o'  tea  would  taste,  but  I  did  n't  want  to 
stop  to  make  it.  I  '11  be  over  in  a  minute, 
jest  as  soon  as  I  see  if  my  front  door  is 
locked."  And  she  disappeared  within  the 
house,  while  Mrs.  Martin  returned  to  her 
own  sitting-room. 

The  invited  knew  very  well  what  the  in 
vitation  to  tea  meant.  She  knew  that  some 
fresh  piece  of  news  was  to  be  related  and 
discussed.  The  beverage  of  which  she  was 
invited  to  partake  was  but  a  pretext,  but 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  admitted  as 
much.  Each  understood  perfectly,  as  by  a 
tacit  agreement,  and  each  tried  to  deceive 
herself  and  the  other  as  to  motives  and 
objects. 


The  Uncalled      109 

/  There  is  some  subtle  tie  between  tea- 
/  drinking  and  gossip.  It  is  over  their  dainty 
/  cups  that  women  dissect  us  men  and  damn 
their  sisters.  Some  of  the  quality  of  the 
\  lemon  they  take  in  their  tea  gets  into  their 
\  tongues.  Tea  is  to  talk  what  dew  is  to  a 
plant,  a  gentle-  .n.ooirlslLmg.^ffy611.0.^ _  which 
gives  to  its  product. much  of  its  own  .quality. 
There  are  two  acids  in  the  tea  which  cul 
tured  women  take.  There  is  only  one  in 
the  beverage  brewed  by  commonplace  peo 
ple.  But  that  is  enough. 

Mrs.  Martin  had  taken  her  tray  into  the 
sitting-room,  where  a  slight  fire  was  burning 
in  the  prim  "  parlour  cook,"  on  which  the 
hot  water  was  striving  to  keep  its  quality 
when  Mrs.  Smith  came  in. 

"  La,  Mis'  Martin,  you  do  manage  to 
have  everything  so  cosy.  I  'm  shore  a  little 
fire  in  a  settin'-room  don't  feel  bad  these 
days." 

"  I  jest  thought  I  'd  have  to  have  a  fire," 
replied  Mrs.  Martin,  "  fur  I  was  feelin'  right 
down  chilly,  though  goodness  knows  a  per 
son  does  burn  enough  coal  in  winter,  without 
throwin'  it  away  in  these  early  fall  days." 

"Well,  the  Lord's  put  it  here  fur  our 
comfort,  an'  I  think  we're  a-doin'  His  will 


no     The  Uncalled 

when  we  make  use  o'  the  good  things  He 
gives  us." 

"Ah,  but  Mis'  Smith,  there's  too  many 
people  that  goes  about  the  world  thinkin' 
that  they  know  jest  what  the  Lord's  will  is  ; 
but  I  have  my  doubts  about  'em,  though, 
mind  you,  I  ain't  a-mentionin'  no  names : 
c  no  name,  no  blame.'  "  Mrs.  Martin  pressed 
her  lips  and  shook  her  head,  a  combination 
of  gestures  that  was  eloquent  with  meaning. 
It  was  too  much  for  her  companion.  Her 
curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  caution. 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  is 
it  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin'  of  any  consequence  at  all. 
It  ain't  fur  me  to  be  a-judgin'  my  neighbours 
or  a-talkin'  about  'em.  I  jest  thought  I  'd 
have  you  over  to  tea,  you  're  sich  good 
company." 

Mrs.  Smith  was  so  impatient  that  she 
had  forgotten  her  sewing  and  it  lay  neglected 
in  her  lap,  but  in  no  other  way  did  she  again 
betray  her  anxiety.  She  knew  that  there 
was  something  new  to  be  told  and  that  it 
would  be  told  all  in  good  time.  But  when 
gossip  has  become  a  fine  art  it  must  be  con 
ducted  with  dignity  and  precision. 

"  Let    me    see,    I    believe    you   take  two 


The   Uncalled     in 

lumps  o'  sugar  an'  no  milk."  Mrs.  Martin 
knew  perfectly  what  her  friend  took.  "  I 
don't  know  how  this  tea  is.  I  got  it  from 
the  new  grocery  over  at  the  corner/'  She 
tasted  it  deliberately.  "  It  might  'a'  drawed 
a  little  more."  Slowly  she  stirred  it  round 
and  round,  and  then,  as  if  she  had  drawn 
the  truth  from  the  depths  of  her  cup,  she 
observed,  "This  is  a  queer  world,  Mis' 
Smith." 

Mrs.  Smith  sighed  a  sigh  that  was  appre 
ciative  and  questioning  at  once.  "  It  is 
indeed,"  she  echoed ;  "I'm  always  a-sayin' 
to  myself  what  a  mighty  cur'us  world 
this  is." 

"  Have  you  ever  got  any  tea  from  that 
new  grocery-man  ?  "  asked  her  companion, 
with  tantalising  irrelevance. 

"  No  :  I  hain't  never  even  been  in  there." 

"  Well,  this  here  's  middlin'  good ;  don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  more  than  middlin',  it's  down 
right  good.  I  think  I  must  go  into  that 
grocery  some  time,  myself." 

"  I  was  in  there  to-day,  and  met  Mis' 
Murphy  :  she  says  there 's  great  goin'-ons 
up  at  Miss  Prime's  —  I  never  shall  be  able 
to  call  her  Mis'  Hodges." 


1 12,     The  Uncalled 

"  You  don't  tell  me  !  She  and  Brother 
'Liphalet  'ain't  had  a  fallin'  out  already, 
have  they  ?  Though  what  more  could  you 
expect  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  It  ain't  no  fallin'  out, 
nothin'  o'  the  kind." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  What  has  Miss 
Hester — I  mean  Mis'  Hodges  been  doin' 
now  ?  Where  will  that  woman  stop  ?  What 's 
she  done  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  —  do  have  another  cup 
of  tea,  an'  help  yoreself  to  that  bread  an' 
butter,  —  you  see,  Freddie  Brent  has  finished 
at  the  high  school,  an'  they  've  been  won- 
derin'  what  to  make  him." 

"Well,  what  air  they  a-goin'  to  make 
him  ?  His  father  was  a  good  stone-mason, 
when  he  was  anything." 

"  Humph  !  you  don't  suppose  Miss  Hes 
ter 's  been  sendin'  a  boy  to  school  to  learn 
Latin  and  Greek  an'  algebry  an'  sich,  to  be 
a  stone-mason,  do  you  ?  Huh  uh  !  Said  I 
to  myself,  as  soon  as  I  see  her  sendin'  him 
from  the  common  school  to  high  school, 
says  I,  c  She  's  got  big  notions  in  her  head.' 
Oh,  no;  the  father's  trade  was  not  good 
enough  fur  her  boy  :  so  thinks  Mis'  'Lipha 
let  Hodges." 


The  Uncalled      113 

"  Well,  what  on  airth  is  she  goin'  to  make 
out  of  him,  then  ?  ': 

"  Please  pass  me  that  sugar  :  thank  you. 
You  know  Mr.  Daniels  offered  him  a  place 
as  clerk  in  the  same  store  where  Sophy- 
Davis  is.  It  was  mighty  kind  o'  Mr. 
Daniels,  I  think,  to  offer  him  the  job." 

"  Well,  did  n't  he  take  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  partly  he  did  an'  partly  he  did  n't, 
ef  you  can  understand  that." 

"  Sally  Martin,  what  do  you  mean  ?  A 
body  has  to  fairly  pick  a  thing  out  o'  you." 

"  I  mean  that  she  told  Mr.  Daniels  he 
might  work  fur  him  half  of  every  day." 

"  Half  a  day  !  An'  what's  he  goin'  to 
do  the  other  half?" 

"  He 's  a-goin'  to  the  Bible  Seminary  the 
other  half-day.  She 's  a-goin  to  make  a 
preacher  out  o'  him." 

Mrs.  Martin  had  slowly  and  tortuously 
worked  up  to  her  climax,  and  she  shot  forth 
the  last  sentence  with  a  jubilant  ring.  She 
had  well  calculated  its  effects.  Sitting  back 
in  her  chair,  she  supped  her  tea  complacently 
as  she  contemplated  her  companion's  aston 
ishment.  Mrs.  Smith  had  completely  col 
lapsed  into  her  seat,  folded  her  arms,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  "  Laws  a  massy  ! "  she 


H4     The  Uncalled 

exclaimed.        "What    next?      Old     Tom, 
drunken    Tom,     swearin'   an*    ravin'     Tom 
Brent's    boy  a   preacher ! "  Then    suddenly 
she   opened   her  eyes  and   sat  up  very  erect 
and  alert  as  she  broke  forth,  "  Sally  Martin, 
what  air  you  a-tellin'  me  ?       It  ain't    pos-  * 
sible.     It's   ag'in'  nature.     A  panther's  cub   j 
ain't  a-goin'  to   be  a  lamb.     It's  downright  I 
wicked,  that's  what  I  say." 

"  An'  so  says  I  to  Mis'  Murphy,  them 
same  identical  words  ;  says  I, c  Mis'  Murphy, 
it's  downright  wicked.  It's  a-shamin'  of 
the  Lord's  holy  callin'  o'  the  ministry.' ' 

"  An'  does  the  young  scamp  pertend  to 
'a'  had  a  call  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  :  he  was  mighty  opposed  to 
it,  and  so  was  her  husband  ;  but  that  woman 
was  so  set  she  would  n't  agree  to  nothin'  else. 
He  don't  pertend  to  'a'  heerd  no  call, 
'ceptin'  Miss  Hester's,  an'  that  was  a  com 
mand.  I  know  it 's  all  true,  fur  Mis' 
Murphy,  while  she  was  n't  jest  a-listenin', 
lives  next  door  and  heerd  it  all." 

And  so  the  two  women  fell  to  discussing 
the  question,  as  they  had  heard  it,  pro  and 
con.  It  was  all  true,  as  these  gossips  had  it, 
that  Miss  Hester  had  put  into  execution  her 
half-expressed  determination  to  make  a 


The  Uncalled     115 

preacher  of  Fred.  He  had  heard  nothing  of 
it  until  the  day  when  he  rushed  in  elated  over 
the  kindly  offer  of  a  place  in  Mr.  Daniels's 
store.  Then  his  guardian  had  firmly  told 
him  of  her  plan,  and  there  was  a  scene. 

"You  kin  jest  tell  Mr.  Daniels  that  you 
kin  work  for  him  half  a  day  every  day,  an' 
that  you  're  a-goin'  to  put  in  the  rest  of 
your  time  at  the  Bible  Seminary.  I  've  made 
all  the  arrangements." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  preacher,"  the 
boy  had  retorted,  with  some  heat.  "  I  'd  a 
good  deal  rather  learn  business,  and  some 
day  start  out  for  myself." 

"  It  ain't  what  some  of  us  wants  to  do  in 
this  life  ;  it 's  what  the  Lord  appoints  us  to  ; 
an'  it 's  wicked  fur  you  to  rebel." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  can  know  so 
much  what  the  Lord  means  for  me  to  do. 
I  should  think  He  would  give  His  messages 
to  those  who  are  to  do  the  work." 

"That's  right,  Freddie  Brent,  sass  me, 
sass  me.  That 's  what  I  've  struggled  all  the 
best  days  of  my  life  to  raise  you  fur." 

"  I  'm  not  sassing  you,  but  —  " 

"  Don't  you  think,  Hester,"  broke  in  her 
husband,  "  that  mebbe  there 's  some  truth 
in  what  Freddie  says  ?  Don't  you  think  the 


1 1 6      The  Uncalled 

Lord  kind  o'  whispers  what  He  wants  people 
to  do  in  their  own  ears  ?  Mebbe  it  was  n't 
never  intended  fur  Freddie  to  be  a  preacher  : 
there 's  other  ways  o'  doin'  good  besides 
a-talkin'  from  the  pulpit." 

"  I  'd  be  bound  fur  you,  'Liphalet :  it 's  a 
shame,  you  a-goin'  ag'in'  me,  after  all  I  've 
done  to  make  Freddie  material  fit  for  the 
Lord's  use.  Jest  think  what  you  '11  have  to 
answer  fur,  a-helpin'  this  unruly  boy  to  shirk 
his  dooty." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  ag'in'  you,  Hester. 
You  're  my  wife,  an'  I  'low  'at  your  jedg- 
ment's  purty  sound  on  most  things.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  ag'in'  you  at  all,  but — but — I  was 
jest  a-wonderin'." 

The  old  man  brought  out  the  last  words 
slowly,  meditatively.  He  was  "jest  a-won 
derin'."  His  wife,  though,  never  wondered. 

"  Mind  you,"  she  went  on,  "  I  say  to 
you,  Freddie,  and  to  yore  uncle  'Liphalet 
too,  ef  he  upholds  you,  that  it  ain't  me 
you're  a-rebellin'  against.  It's  yore  dooty 
an'  the  will  o'  God  that  you  're  a-fightin'. 
It 's  easy  enough  to  rebel  against  man ;  but 
do  you  know  what  you  're  a-doin'  when  you 
set  yourself  up  against  the  Almighty  ?  Do 
you  want  to  do  that  ? " 


The  Uncalled     117 

"  Yes,"  came  the  boy's  answer  like  a  flash. 
He  was  stung  and  irritated  into  revolt,  and 
a  torrent  of  words  poured  from  his  lips  un 
restrained.  "  I  'm  tired  of  doing  right.  I  'm 
tired  of  being  good.  I  'm  tired  of  obeying 
God  —  " 

"  Freddie  !  "  But  over  the  dam  the  water 
was  flowing  with  irresistible  force.  The  horror 
of  his  guardian's  face  and  the  terrible  reproach 
in  her  voice  could  not  check  the  boy. 

"  Everything,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  have 
ever  wanted  to  do  since  I  can  remember  has 
been  bad,  or  against  my  duty,  or  displeasing 
to  God.  Why  does  He  frown  on  everything 
I  want  to  do  ?  Why  do  we  always  have  to 
be  killing  our  wishes  on  account  of  duty  ? 
I  don't  believe  it.  I  hate  duty.  I  hate 
obedience.  I  hate  everything,  and  I  won't 
obey  —  " 

"  Freddie,  be  keerful :  don't  say  anything 
that  '11  hurt  after  yore  mad  spell 's  over. 
Don't  blaspheme  the  Lord  A'mighty." 

'Liphalet  Hodges'  voice  was  cool  and 
tender  and  persuasive.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
the  boy's  shoulder,  while  his  wife  sat  there 
motionless,  whitejmd  rigid  with  horror. 

The  old  man's  words  ancTKis  gentle  touch 
had  a  wonderful  effect  on  the  boy  ;  they 


n8     The  Uncalled 

checked  his  impassioned  outburst ;  but  his 
pent-up  heart  was  too  full.  He  burst  into 
tears  and  rushed  headlong  from  the  house. 

For  a  time  he  walked  aimlessly  on,  his 
mind  in  a  tumult  of  rage.  Then  he 
began  to  come  to  himself.  He  saw  the 
people  as  they  passed  him.  He  had  eyes 
again  for  the  street,  and  he  wondered  where 
he  was  going.  He  felt  an  overwhelming 
desire  to  talk  to  some  one  and  to  get  sym 
pathy,  consolation,  and  perhaps  support. 
But  whither  should  he  turn?  If  'Liphalet 
Hodges  had  been  at  the  old  house,  his  steps 
would  naturally  have  bent  in  that  direction ; 
but  this  refuge  was  no  longer  his.  Then  his 
mind  began  going  over  the  people  whom  he 
knew,  and  no  name  so  stuck  in  his  fancy  as 
that  of  Elizabeth.  It  was  a  hard  struggle. 
He  was  bashful.  Any  other  time  he  would 
not  have  done  it,  but  now  his  great  need 
created  in  him  an  intense  desperation  that 
made  him  bold.  He  turned  and  retraced  his 
steps  toward  the  Simpson  house. 

Elizabeth  was  leaning  over  the  gate.  The 
autumn  evening  was  cool :  she  had  a  thin 
shawl  about  her  shoulders.  She  was  hum 
ming  a  song  as  Fred  came  up.  His  own 
agitation  made  her  seem  irritatingly  calm. 


The  Uncalled      119 

She  opened  the  gate  and  made  room  for  him 
at  her  side. 

"You  seem  dreadfully  warm,"  she  said, 
"  and  here  I  was  getting  ready  to  go  in  be 
cause  it  is  so  cool." 

"  I  've  been  walking  very  fast,"  he  answer 
ed,  hesitatingly. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  'd  better  go  in,  so 
as  not  to  take  cold  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  if  I  do  take  cold." 
The  speech  sounded  rude.  Elizabeth  looked 

at  him  in  surprise. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she  asked. 
"  I  'm  mad  ;  that 's  what 's  the  matter." 
f^~"  Oh,  Fred,  you  should  n't  get  mad  :  you 
iknow  it 's  wrong."  ^>C 

He  put  up  his  hand  as  if  she  had  struck 
him.  "  Wrong  !  wrong  !  It  seems  I  can't 
hear  anything  else  but  that  word.  Every 
thing  is  wrong.  Don't  say  any  more  about 
it.  I  don't  want  to  hear  the  word  again." 

Elizabeth  did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
his  words,  so  she  said  nothing,  and  for  a 
while  they  stood  in  strained  silence.  After 
a  while  he  said,  "  Aunt  Hester  wants  me  to 
be  a  preacher." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that,"  she  returned. 
"  I  think  you  '11  make  a  good  one." 


120     The  Uncalled 

"  You  too  ! "  he  exclaimed,  resentfully. 
"  Why  should  I  make  a  good  one  ?  Why 
need  I  be  one  at  all  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because  you  're  smart,  and  then 
you  've  always  been  good." 

The  young  man  was  suddenly  filled  with 
disdain.  His  anger  returned.  He  felt  how 
utterly  out  of  accord  he  was  with  every  one 
else,  "  Don't  you  think  there  is  anything 
else  required  besides  being  ( smart '  and 
c  good '  ?  "  He  himself  would  have  blushed 
at  the  tone  in  which  he  said  this,  could  he 
have  recognised  it.  "  I  'm  smart  because  I 
happened  to  pass  all  my  examinations.  I 
got  through  the  high  school  at  eighteen  : 
nearly  everyone  does  the  same.  I'm  good 
hecangp.  T  kfl.vg-_npver  had  a  chanceto  be 
bad  :  I  have  never  been  out  of  Aunt  Hes 
ter's  sight  long  enough.  Anybody  could 
be  good  that  way." 

"  But  then  older  people  know  what  is 
best  for  us,  Fred." 

"  Why  should  they?  They  don't  know 
what's  beating  inside  of  us  away  down  here." 
The  boy  struck  his  breast  fiercely.  "  I 
don't  believe  they  do  know  half  the  time 
what  is  best,  ancl  I  don't  believe  that  God 
intends  them  to  know." 


The  Uncalled      121 

"  I  would  n't  talk  about  it,  if  I  were  you. 
I  must  go  in.  Won't  you  come  in  with 
me  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night,"  he  replied.  "  I  must  be 
off." 

"  But  papa  might  give  you  some  advice." 

"  I  've  had  too  much  of  it  now.  What  I 
want  is  room  to  breathe  in  once." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  know  you  don't ;  nobody  does,  or  tries 
to.  Go  in,  Lizzie,"  he  said  more  calmly. 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  catch  cold,  even  if  I 
do.  Good-night."  And  he  turned  away. 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after 
him  ;  her  eye  was  moist.  Then  she  pouted, 
"  Fred's  real  cross  to-night,"  and  went  in. 

It  is  one  of  the  glaring  sarcasms  of  life  to      V 
xsee  with  what  complacency  a  shallow  woman 
skims  the  surface  of  tragedy  and  thinks  that 
she  has  sounded  the  depths. 

Fred  continued  his  walk  towards  home. 
He  was  thinking.  It  ran  in  him  that  Eliza 
beth  was  a  good  deal  of  a  fool ;  and  then  he 
felt  horrified  with  himself  for  thinking  it. 
I tjjjd  nnf  nrmrjto_hirr^  that  the  hard_con- 
ditions  through  which  he  had  come,  had 
niade  him  mentally  and  spiritually  older  than 
the  girl.  He  was  t"hmEng"  of  his~~position, 


122     The  Uncalled 

how  perfectly  alone  he  stood.  Most  of  the 
people  whom  he  knew  would  see  only  blind 
obstinacy  in  his  refusal  to  be  a  minister. 
But  were  one's  inclinations  nothing  ?  Was 
there  really  nothing  in  the  "  call  "  to  preach  ? 
So  he  pondered  as  he  walked,  and  more  and 
more  the  hopelessness  of  his  predicament 
became  revealed  to  him.  All  his  life  had 
been  moulded  by  this  one  woman's  hands. 
Would  not  revolt  now  say  to  the  world, 
"  I  am  grown  now ;  I  do  not  need  this 
woman  who  has  toiled.  I  can  disobey  her 
with  impunity ;  I  will  do  so." 

He  went  home,  and  before  going  in  leaned 
his  head  long  upon  the  gate  and  thought. 
A  listless  calm  had  succeeded  his  storm  of 
passion.  He  went  in  and  to  bed. 

At  breakfast  he  seemed  almost  cheerful, 
while  Mr.  Hodges  was  subdued.  His  wife 
had  taken  refuge  in  an  attitude  of  injured 
silence. 

"  Aunt  Hester,"  said  the  young  man, 
apparently  without  effort,  "  I  was  wrong  yes 
terday  ;  I  am  sorry.  I  will  do  whatever  you 
say,  even  to  being  a  preacher."  Something 
came  up  in  his  throat  and  choked  him  as 
he  saw  a  brightness  come  into  the  face  and 
eyes  of  his  beloved  "  Uncle  'Liph,"  but  it 


The   Uncalled     123 

grew  hard  and  bitter  there  as  Mrs.  Hodges 
replied,  "  Well,  I  'm  glad  the  Lord  has 
showed  you  the  errors  of  your  way  an* 
brought  you  around  to  a  sense  o'  your  dooty 
to  Him  an'  to  me." 

Poor,  blind,  conceited  humanity  !  Inter 
preters  of  God,  indeed !  We  reduce  the 
Deity  to  vulgar  fractions.  We  place  our 
own  little  ambitions  and  inclinations  before 
a  shrine,  and  label  them  "  divine  messages." 
We  set  up  our  Delphian  tripod,  and  we  are 
the  priest  and  oracles.  We  despise  the  plans 
of  Nature's  Ruler  and  substitute  our  own. 
With  our  short  sight  we  affect  to  take  a 
comprehensive  view  of  eternity.  Our  hori 
zon  is  the  universe.  We  spy  on  the  Divine 
and  try  to  surprise  His  secrets,  or  to  sneak 
into  His  confidence  by  stealth.  We  make 
God  the  eternal  a  puppet.  We  measure  in 
finity  with  a  foot-rule. 


CHAPTER   X 

WHEN  Fate  is  fighting  with  all  her 
might  against  a  human  soul,  the 
greatest  victory  that  the  soul  can  win  is  to 
reconcile  itself  to  the  unpleasant,  which  is. 
never  quite  so  unpleasant  afterwards.^  Upon 
this  principle  Frederick  Brent  acted  instinc 
tively.  What  with  work  and  study  and  con 
tact  with  his  fellow-students,  he  found  the 
seminary  not  so  bad  a  place,  after  all.  In 
deed,  he  began  to  take  a  sort  of  pleasure  in 
his  pursuits.  The  spirit  of  healthy  compe 
tition  in  the  school  whetted  his  mind  and  made 
him  forgetful  of  many  annoyances  from  with 
out.  When  some  fellow-salesman  at  the  store 
gibed  at  him  for  being  a  parson,  it  hurt 
him  ;  but  the  wound  was  healed  and  he  was 
compensated  when  in  debate  he  triumphed 
over  the  crack  speaker  of  his  class.  It  was 
a  part  of  his  training  to  do  earnestly  and 
thoroughly  what  he  had  to  do,  even  though 
it  was  distasteful,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  was  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  most  promis 
ing  members  of  the  school. 


The  Uncalled      125 

Notwithstanding  its  steady  growth  toward 
citydom,  Dexter  retained  many  of  the  tradi 
tions  of  its  earlier  and  smaller  days.  Among 
them  was  that  of  making  the  church  the 
centre  of  its  social  and  public  life.  For  this 
reason  the  young  student  came  in  for  much 
attention  on  account  of  his  standing  in  the 
religious  college.  Another  cause  which 
elicited  the  praise  and  congratulations  of 
his  friends  was  his  extreme  youth.  That 
community  which  could  send  out  a  "  boy 
preacher"  always  deemed  itself  particularly 
favoured  by  Providence.  Dexter  was  no 
exception,  and  it  had  already  begun  to  be 
stow  the  appellation  upon  young  Brent, 
much  to  his  disgust.  He  knew  the  species 
and  detested  it.  It  was  mostly  composed 

of  ignorant  and hypocritical    young    prigs, 

in  whom  their  friends  had  seemed  to  see 
some  especial  merit  and  had  forthwith 
hoisted  them  into  a  position  that  was  as 
foolish  as  it  was  distasteful.  They  were 
hailed  as  youthful  prodigies  and  exploited 
around  the  country  like  a  patent  medicine 
or  a  side-show.  What  is  remarkable  at 
eighteen  is  not  so  striking  at  twenty-eight. 
So  when  their  extreme  youth  was  no  longer 
a  cause  for  surprise,  the  boy  preachers 


126     The  Uncalled 

I  settled  down  into  every-day  dulness,  with 
nothing  except  the  memory  of  a  flimsy 
fame  to  compensate  the  congregations  they 
borej 

Against  this  Frederick  Brent  fought  with 
all  his  strength.  He  refused  invitation  after 
invitation  to  "talk"  or  "exhort,"  on  the 
plea  that  he  wished  to  be  fully  prepared 
for  his  work  before  entering  upon  it. 

But  his  success  at  school  militated  against 
him,  for  the  fame  of  his  oratorical  powers 
was  gradually  but  surely  leaking  out.  The 
faculty  recognised  and  commended  it,  so 
he  could  not  hope  long  to  hide  behind  his 
plea,  although  he  dreaded  the  day  when  it 
would  no  longer  serve  his  purpose. 

Some  of  the  "  older  heads  "  accused  him 
of  an  unwarranted  fear,  of  cowardice  even, 
and  an  attempt  to  shirk  his  evident  duty. 
The  truth  of  it  was  that  these  same  people 
wanted  to  hear  him  and  then  attack  his 
manner  or  his  doctrine.  They  could  not, 
would  not  forget  that  he  was  the  son  of 
old  Tom  Brent,  the  drunkard,  and  of  the 
terrible,  the  unspeakable  Margaret,  his  wife. 
They  could  not  forget  that  he  was  born 
and  lived  the  first  years  of  his  life  on  the 
"mean"  street,  when  it  was  a  mean  street; 


The  Uncalled     127 

and  when  any  obstinate  old  fossil  was  told 
of  the  youth's  promise,  he  would  shake  his 
head,  as  who  should  say,  "  What  good  can 
come  out  of  that  Nazareth  ?  " 

But  the  young  man  went  his  way  and 
heeded  them  not.  He  knew  what  they 
were  saying.  He  knew  what  they  were 
thinking,  even  when  they  held  his  hand 
and  smiled  upon  him,  and  it  filled  him  with 
a  spirit  of  distrust  and  resentment,  though 
it  put  him  bravely  on  his  mettle.  While 
he  was  a  man,  and  in  the  main  manly,  some 
times  he  was  roused  to  an  anger  almost 
childish ;  then,  although  he  did  not  want 
to  be  a  preacher  at  all,  he  wished  and  even 
prayed  to  become  a  great  one,  just  to  con 
vince  the  old  fools  who  shook  their  heads 
over  him.  To  his  ears  had  crept,  as  such 
tales  will  creep,  some  of  the  stories  of  his 
parents'  lives,  and,  while  he  pitied  his 
mother,  there  was  a  great  fierceness  in 
his  heart  against  his__fath£iL_ _— — - 

But  aslrTtrTe  old  days  when  Miss  Prime's 
discipline  would  have  turned  all  within  him 
to  hardness  and  bitterness  Eliphalet  Hodges 
stood  between  him  and  despair,  so  now  in 
this  crucial  time  Elizabeth  was  a  softening 
influence  in  his  life. 


1 28      The  Uncalled 

As  the  days  came  and  went,  he  had  con 
tinued  to  go  to  see  her  ever  since  the  night 
when  he  had  stood  with  her  at  the  gate  and 
felt  the  bitterness  of  her  lack  of  sympathy; 
but  all  that  had  passed  now,  and  uncon 
sciously  they  had  grown  nearer  to  each 
other.  There  had  been  a  tacit  understand 
ing  between  them  until  just  a  few  weeks  be 
fore.  It  was  on  a  warm  spring  evening : 
he  had  just  passed  through  her  gate  and 
started  towards  the  house,  when  the  open 
ing  chords  of  the  piano  struck  on  his  ear 
through  the  opened  window  and  arrested 
him.  Elizabeth  had  a  pleasant  little  voice, 
with  a  good  deal  of  natural  pathos  in  it. 
As  the  minister's  daughter,  the  scope  of  her 
songs  was  properly,  according  to  Dexter, 
rather  limited,  but  that  evening  she  was 
singing  softly  to  herself  a  love-song.  The 
words  were  these  : 


If  Death  should  claim  me  for  her  own  to-day, 

And  softly  I  should  falter  from  your  side, 
Oh,  tell  me,  loved  one,  would  my  memory  stay, 

And  would  my  image  in  your  heart  abide  ? 
Or  should  I  be  as  some  forgotten  dream, 

That  lives  its  little  space,  then  fades  entire  ? 
Should  Time  send  o'er  you  its  relentless  stream 

To  cool  your  heart,  and  quench  for  aye  love's  fire  ? 


The  Uncalled      129 

I  would  not  for  the  world,  love,  give  you  pain, 

Or  ever  compass  what  would  cause  you  grief; 
And  oh,  how  well  I  know  that  tears  are  vain  ! 

But  love  is  sweet,  my  dear,  and  life  is  brief; 
So,  if  some  day  before  you  I  should  go 

Beyond  the  sound  and  sight  of  song  and  sea, 
'T  would  give  my  spirit  stronger  wings  to  know 

That  you  remembered  still  and  wept  for  me. 

She  was  alone  in  the  room.  The  song 
was  hardly  finished  when  Brent  stepped 
through  the  window  and  laid  his  hand  over 
hers  where  they  rested  on  the  keys. 

"  Why  do  you  sing  like  that,  Elizabeth  ? " 
he  said,  tremulously. 

She  blushed  and  lowered  her  eyes  be 
neath  his  gaze,  as  if  she  already  knew  the 
words  that  were  on  his  lips,  or  feared  that 
her  soul  lay  too  bare  before  him. 

"  Why  do  you  think  of  death  ?  "  he  asked 
again,  imprisoning  her  hands. 

"  It  was  only  my  mood,"  she  faltered. 
"  I  was  thinking,  and  I  thought  of  the  song, 
and  I  just  sang  it." 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  any  one  in  par 
ticular,  Lizzie  ?  " 

Her   head  drooped  lower  until   her  face 

was    hidden,  but  she   did    not    answer.     A 

strange  boldness    had    come    to   him.      He 

went  on  :  "  I  listened  as  you  were  singing, 

9 


130    The   Uncalled 

and  it  seemed  as  if  every  word  was  meant 
for  me,  Lizzie.  It  may  sound  foolish,  but 
I  —  I  love  you.  Won't  you  look  at  me 
and  tell  me  that  I  am  right  in  thinking 
you  love  me  ? "  She  half  raised  her  face 
to  his  and  murmured  one  word.  In  it 
were  volumes ;  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
kissed  a  girl.  He  did  it  almost  fearfully. 
It  was  a  kiss  in  which  reverence  struggled 
with  passion. 

"  You  are  to  be  my  little  sweetheart  now, 
and  I  am  to  be  in  your  thoughts  hereafter 
when  you  sing ;  only  we  don't  want  any 
more  such  songs  as  this  one.  I  don't  want 
to  c  remember  still  and  weep  for  you,'  I  want 
to  have  you  always  by  me  and  work  for  you. 
Won't  you  let  me  ?  " 

Elizabeth  found  her  tongue  for  a  moment 
only,  but  that  was  enough  for  her  lover. 
A  happy  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes  :  his  face 
glowed.  He  was  transfigured.  Love  does 
so  much  for  a  man. 

From  that  time  forward,  when  he  was 
harassed  by  cares  and  trouble,  he  sought  out 
Elizabeth,  and,  even  though  he  could  seldom 
tell  her  all  that  was  in  his  heart,  he  found 
relief  in  her  presence.  He  did  not  often 


The  Uncalled      131 

speak  of  his  trials  to  her,  for,  in  spite  of  his 
love  for  her,  he  felt  that  she  could  not 
understand  ;  but  the  pleasure  he  found  in 
her  company  put  sweetness  into  his  life  and 
made  his  burdens  easier  to  bear. 

Only  once  had  a  little  shadow  come  be 
tween  them,  and  the  fact  that  so  little  a  thing 
could  have  made  a  shadow  shows  in  what 
a  narrow,  constrained  atmosphere  the  two 
young  people  lived.  Young  Brent  still  had 
his  half-day  position  in  the  store,  and  when 
the  employees  of  a  rival  establishment  chal 
lenged  Daniels's  clerks  to  a  game  of  base 
ball,  he  was  duly  chosen  as  one  of  the  men 
to  uphold  the  honour  of  their  house  upon  the 
diamond. 

The  young  man  was  not  fossilised.  He 
had  strength  and  the  capacity  for  enjoyment, 
so  he  accepted  without  a  thought  of  wrong. 
The  Saturday  came,  the  game  was  played. 
Fred  Brent  took  part,  and  thereby  brought 
a  hornets'  nest  about  his  ears.  It  would 
scarcely  have  been  so  bad,  but  the  young 
man  entered  the  game  with  all  the  zest  and 
earnestness  of  his  intense  nature,  and  several 
times  by  brilliant  playing  saved  his  side  from 
defeat.  In  consequence,  his  name  was  in 
the  mouth  of  every  one  who  had  seen  or 


132,      The  Uncalled 

heard  of  the  contest.  He  was  going  home 
that  evening,  feeling  pleased  and  satisfied 
with  himself,  when  he  thought  he  would 
drop  in  a  moment  on  the  way  and  see  Eliz 
abeth.  He  had  hardly  got  into  the  house 
before  he  saw  from  her  manner  that  some 
thing  was  wrong,  and  he  wondered  what  it 
could  be.  He  soon  learned.  It  is  only 
praise  that  is  slow. 

"  Oh,  Fred,"  said  the  girl,  reproachfully, 
"  is  it  true  that  you  have  been  playing  base 
ball  ?  " 

"  Baseball,  yes ;  what  of  it  ?  What  are 
you  looking  so  horrified  about  ?  " 

"  Did  you  think  it  was  right  for  you,  in 
your  position,  to  play  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  thought  it  was  wrong  I  assur 
edly  should  not  have  played,"  the  young 
loarn  returned. 

Everybody  is  talking  about  it,  and  father 
says    he    thinks    you    have    disgraced     your 
L_£alHng." 

"  Disgraced  my  calling  by  playing  an  inno 
cent  game  ?  " 

"  But  father  thinks  it  is  a  shame  for  a  man 
who  is  preparing  to  do  such  work  as  yours 
to  have  people  talking  about  him  as  a  mere 
ball-player." 


The  Uncalled     133 

The  blood  mounted  in  hot  surges  to  the 
young  man's  face.  He  felt  like  saying,  "  Your 
father  be  hanged,"  but  he  controlled  his 
anger,  and  said,  quietly,  7  Elizabeth,  don't 
you  ever  think  Jo  r  yourself?  " 
~~"\  suppose  I  do,  Fred,  but  I  have  been 
brought  up  to  respect  what  my  elders  think 
and  say." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  they,  as  well  as  we, 
can  be  narrow  and  mistaken  ?  " 

/"  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  them.  My 
part  is  to  obey." 

"  You  have  learned  an  excellent  lesson," 
he  returned,  bitterly.  "  That  is  just  the 
thing :  c  obey,  obey.'  Well,  I  will.  I  will 
be  a  stick,  a  dolt.  I  will  be  as  unlike  what 
God  intended  me  to  be  as  possible.  I  will 
be  just  what  your  father  and  Aunt  Hester 
and  you  want  me  to  be.  I  will  let  them 
think  for  me  and  save  my  soul.  I  am  too 
much  an  imbecile  to  attempt  to  work  out 
my  own  salvation.  No,  Elizabeth,  I  will 
not  play  ball  any  more.  I  can  imagine  the 
horrified  commotion  it  caused  among  the 
angels  when  they  looked  down  and  saw  me 
pitching.  When  I  get  back  to  school  I 
shall  look  up  the  four  Gospels'  views  on 
ball-playing." 


134      The  Uncalled 

"  Fred,  I  don't  like  you  when  you  talk 
that  way." 

"  I  won't  do  that  any  more,  either."  He 
rose  abruptly.  "  Good-bye,  Elizabeth.  I 
am  off."  He  was  afraid  to  stay,  lest  more 
bitter  words  should  come  to  his  lips. 

"  Good-bye,  Fred,"  she  said.  "  I  hope 
you  understand." 

The  young  man  wondered  as  he  walked 
homeward  if  the  girl  he  had  chosen  was  not 
a  little  bit  prim.  Then  he  thought  of  her 
father,  and  said  to  himself,  even  as  people 
would  have  said  of  himself,  "  How  can  she 
help  it,  with  such  a  father  ?  " 

All  his  brightness  had  been  dashed.  He 
was  irritated  because  the  thing  was  so  small, 
so  utterly  absurd.  It  was  like  the  sting  of 
a  miserable  little  insect, — just  enough  to 
smart,  and  not  enough  to  need  a  strong 
remedy.  The  news  of  the  game  had  also 
preceded  him  home,  and  his  guardian's  opin 
ion  of  the  propriety  of  his  action  did  not 
tend  to  soothe  his  mind.  Mrs.  Hodges 
forcibly  expressed  herself  as  follows  :  "  I  put 
baseball-playin'  right  down  with  dancin'  and 
sich  like.  It  ain't  no  fittin'  occupation  for 
any  one  that's  a-goin'  into  the  ministry. 
It's  idleness,  to  begin  with;  it's  a-wastin' 


The  Uncalled      135 

the  precious  time  that 's  been  given  us  for  a 
better  use.  A  young  man  that 's  goin'  to 
minister  to  people's  souls  ought  to  be  conse 
crated  to  the  work  before  he  begins  it.  Who 
ever  heerd  tell  of  Jesus  playin'  base-ball  ?  " 

Among  a  certain  class  of  debaters  such  an 
argument  is  always  supposed  to  be  clinching, 
unanswerable,  final.  But  Mr.  Hodges  raised 
his  voice  in  protest.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  keep 
still  no  longer.  I  don't  believe  the  boy 's 
done  a  bit  o'  harm.  There  's  lots  of  things 
the  Lord  did  n't  do  that  He  did  n't  forbid 
human  bein's  to  do.  We  ain't  none  of  us 
divine,  but  you  mark  my  words,  Freddie, 
an'  I  say  it  right  here  so  's  yore  aunt  Hester 
can  hear  me  too,  you  mark  my  words :  ef 
you  never  do  nothin'  worse  than  what 
you  've  been  a-doin'  to-day,  it  '11  be  mighty 
easy  for  you  to  read  yore  title  clear  to  man 
sions  in  the  skies." 

"  Omph  huh,  'Liphalet,  there  ain't  nothin' 
so  easy  as  talkin'  when  Satin  's  a-promptin' 
you." 

"  There  you  go,  Hester,  there  you  go 
ag'in,  a-pattin'  the  devil  on  the  back.  I 
'low  the  Old  Boy  must  be  tickled  to  death 
with  all  the  compliments  Christian  people 
give  him." 


136     The  Uncalled 

"  A  body  'd  about  as  well  be  complimentin' 
the  devil  as  to  be  a-countenancin'  his  works, 
as  you  air." 

The  old  man  stopped  with  a  piece  half 
way  to  his  mouth.  "  Now  jest  listen  at  that ! 
Hester  Prime,  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yoreself  ? 
Me  a-countenancin'  wrong !  Sayin'  that 
to  me,  an'  me  ol'  enough  to  be  —  to  be  — 
well,  I  'm  your  husband,  anyway." 

In  times  of  excitement  he  was  apt  to  for 
get  this  fact  for  the  instant  and  give  his  wife 
her  maiden  name,  as  if  all  that  was  sharp  in 
her  belonged  to  that  prenuptial  period.  But 
this  storm  relieved  the  atmosphere  of  its  ten 
sion.  Mrs.  Hodges  felt  better  for  having 
spoken  her  mind,  and  Mr.  Hodges  for  hav 
ing  answered,  while  the  young  man  was 
relieved  by  the  championship  of  his  elder, 
and  so  the  storm  blew  over.  It  was  several 
days  before  Brent  saw  Elizabeth  again ;  but, 
thanks  to  favouring  winds,  the  sky  had  also 
cleared  in  that  direction. 

It  was  through  such  petty  calms  and 
storms  that  Fred  passed  the  days  and  weeks 
of  his  first  year  at  the  seminary.  Some  of 
them  were  small  annoyances,  to  be  sure,  but 
he  felt  them  deeply,  and  the  sting  of  them 
rankled.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  because 


The  Uncalled     137 

there  was  no  specific  outburst,  that  he  was 
entirely  at  rest.  Vesuvius  had  slumbered 
long  before  Pompeii's  direful  day.  His  mind 
was  often  in  revolt,  but  he  kept  it  to  himself 
or  confided  it  to  only  one  friend.  This 
friend  was  a  fellow-student  at  the  seminary, 
a  man  older  than  Fred  by  some  years.  He 
had  first  begun  a  literary  career,  but  had  re 
nounced  it  for  the  ministry.  Even  to  him 
Fred  would  not  commit  himself  until,  near 
the  end  of  the  year,  Taylor  declared  his  in 
tention  of  now  renouncing  the  study  of  the 
ology  for  his  old  pursuits.  Then  Brent's 
longing  to  be  free  likewise  drew  his  story 
from  his  lips. 

Taylor  listened  to  him  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  been  through  it  all  and  could  sym 
pathise.  Then  he  surprised  his  friend  by 
saying,  "Don't  be  a  fool,  Brent.  It's  all 
very  nice  and  easy  to  talk  about  striking  out 
for  one's  self,  and  all  that.  I  've  been 
through  it  all  myself.  My  advice  to  you  is, 
stay  here,  go  through  the  academic  discipline, 
and  be  a  parson.  Get  into  a  rut  if  you  will, 
for  some  ruts  are  safe.  When  we  are  buried 
deep,  they  keep  us  from  toppling  over. 
This  may  be  a  sort  of  weak  philosophy  I  am 
trying  to  teach  you,  but  it  is  the  happiest. 


138      The  Uncalled 

If  I  can  save  any  man  from  self-delusion,  I 
want  to  do  it.  I  '11  tell  you  why.  When  I 
was  at  school  some  fool  put  it  into  my  head 
that  I  could  write.  I  hardly  know  how  it 
came  about.  I  began  scribbling  of  my  own 
accord  and  for  my  own  amusement.  Some 
times  I  showed  the  things  to  my  friend,  who 
was  a  fool :  he  bade  me  keep  on,  saying  that 
I  had  talent.  I  did  n't  believe  it  at  first. 
But  when  a  fellow  keeps  dinging  at  another 
with  one  remark,  after  a  while  he  grows  to 
believe  it,  especially  when  it  is  pleasant.  It 
is  vastly  easy  to  believe  what  we  want  to  be 
lieve.  So  I  came  to  think  that  I  could 
write,  and  my  soul  was  fired  with  the  ambi 
tion  to  make  a  name  for  myself  in  literature. 
When  I  should  have  been  turning  Virgil 
into  English  for  class-room,  I  was  turning 
out  more  or  less  deformed  verse  of  my  own, 
or  rapt  in  the  contemplation  of  some  plot  for 
story  or  play.  But  somehow  I  got  through 
school  without  a  decided  flunk.  In  the  mean 
time  some  of  my  lines  had  found  their  way 
into  print,  and  the  little  cheques  I  received 
for  them  had  set  my  head  buzzing  with 
dreams  of  wealth  to  be  made  by  my  pen. 
If  we  could  only  pass  the  pitfalls  of  that 
dreaming  age  of  youth,  most  of  us  would  get 


The  Uncalled      139 

along  fairly  well  in  this  matter-of-fact  old 
world.  But  we  are  likely  to  follow  blindly 
the  leadings  of  our  dreams  until  we  run  our 
heads  smack  into  a  corner-post  of  reality. 
Then  we  awaken,  but  in  most  cases  too  late. 

"  I  am  glad  to  say  that  my  father  had  the 
good  sense  to  discourage  my  aspirations.  He 
wanted  me  to  take  a  profession.  But,  elated 
by  the  applause  of  my  friends,  I  scorned  the 
idea.  What,  mew  my  talents  up  in  a  court 
room  or  a  hospital  ?  Never  !  It  makes  me 
sick  when  I  look  back  upon  it  and  see  what 
a  fool  I  was.  I  settled  down  at  home  and 
began  writing.  Lots  of  things  came  back 
from  periodicals  to  which  I  sent  them  ;  but 
I  had  been  told  that  this  was  the  common  lot 
of  all  writers,  and  I  plodded  on.  A  few 
things  sold,  just  enough  to  keep  my  hopes  in 
a  state  of  unstable  equilibrium. 

"Well,  it's  no  use  to  tell  you  how  I  went 
on  in  that  way  for  four  years,  clinging  and 
losing  hold,  standing  and  slipping,  seeing  the 
prize  recede  just  as  I  seemed  to  grasp  it. 
Then  came  the  awakening.  I  saw  that  it 
would  have  been  better  just  to  go  on  and  do 
the  conventional  thing.  I  found  this  out 
too  late,  and  I  came  here  to  try  to  remedy 
it,  but  I  can't.  No  one  can.  You  get  your 


140     The  Uncalled 

mind  into  a  condition  where  the  ordinary 
routine  of  study  is  an  impossibility,  and  you 
cannot  go  back  and  take  up  the  train  you 
have  laid,  so  you  keep  struggling  on  wasting 
your  energy,  hoping  against  hope.  Then 
suddenly  you  find  out  that  you  are  and  can 
be  only  third-  or  at  best  second-rate.  God, 
what  a  discovery  it  is  !  How  you  try  to 
fight  it  off  until  the  last  moment !  But  it 
comes  upon  you  surely  and  crushingly,  and, 
cut,  bruised,  wounded,  you  slip  away  from 
the  face  of  the  world.  If  you  are  a  brave 
man,  you  say  boldly  to  yourself,  c  I  will  eke 
out  an  existence  in  some  humble  way,'  and 
you  go  away  to  a  life  of  longing  and  regret. 
If  you  are  a  coward,  you  either  leap  over  the 
parapets  of  life  to  hell,  or  go  creeping  back 
and  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  thing  that  has 
damned  you,  willing  to  be  third-rate,  any 
thing  ;  for  you  are  stung  with  the  poison 
that  never  leaves  your  blood.  So  it  has 
been  with  me :  even  when  I  found  that  I 
must  choose  a  calling,  I  chose  the  one  that 
gave  me  most  time  to  nurse  the  serpent  that 
had  stung  me." 

Taylor  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  a 
little  ashamed  of  his  vehemence. 

"  This  is   your  story,"  said  Brent ;  "  but 


The  Uncalled      141 

men  differ  and  conditions  differ.  I  will 
accept  all  the  misery,  all  the  pain  and  defeat 
you  have  suffered,  to  be  free  to  choose  my 
own  course." 

Taylor  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  depre 
catory  gesture.  "  There,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is 
always  so.  I  might  as  well  have  talked  to 
the  wind." 

So  the  fitful  calms  and  Elizabeth's  love 
had  not  cured  Frederick  Brent's  heart  of  its 
one  eating  disease,  the  desire  for  freedom. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  not  until  early  in  Brent's  second 
year  at  the  Bible  Seminary  that  he  was 
compelled  to  go  through  the  ordeal  he  so 
much  dreaded,  that  of  filling  a  city  pulpit. 
The  Dexterites  had  been  wont  to  complain 
that  since  the  advent  among  them  of  the 
theological  school  their  churches  had  been 
turned  into  recitation-rooms  for  the  raw 
students  ;  but  of  "  old  Tom  Brent 's  boy," 
as  they  still  called  him,  they  could  never 
make  this  complaint.  So,  as  humanity 
loves  to  grumble,  the  congregations  began 
to  find  fault  because  he  did  not  do  as  his 
fellows  did. 

The  rumours  of  his  prowess  in  the  class 
room  and  his  eloquence  in  the  society  hall 
had  not  abated,  and  the  curiosity  of  his 
fellow-townsmen  had  been  whetted  to  a 
point  where  endurance  was  no  longer 
possible.  Indeed,  it  is  open  to  question 
whether  it  was  not  by  connivance  of  the 
minister  himself,  backed  by  his  trustees  on 


The  Uncalled      143 

one  side  and  the  college  authorities  on  the 
other,  that  Brent  was  finally  deputed  to 
supply  the  place  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson, 
who  was  affected  by  an  indisposition,  fan 
cied,  pretended,  or  otherwise. 

The  news  struck  the  young  man  like  a 
thunderbolt,  albeit  he  had  been  expecting  it. 
He  attempted  to  make  his  usual  excuse,  but 
the  kindly  old  professor  who  had  notified 
him  smiled  into  his  face,  and,  patting  his 
shoulder,  said,  "  It 's  no  use,  Brent.  I  'd 
go  and  make  the  best  of  it ;  they  're  bound 
to  have  you.  I  understand  your  diffidence  in 
the  matter,  and,  knowing  how  well  you  stand 
in  class,  it  does  credit  to  your  modesty." 

The  old  man  passed  on.  He  said  he 
understood,  but  in  his  heart  the  young  stu 
dent  standing  there  helpless,  hopeless,  knew 
that  he  did  not  understand,  that  he  could 
not.  Only  he  himself  could  perceive  it  in 
all  the  trying  horror  of  its  details.  Only  he 
himself  knew  fully  or  could  know  what  the 
event  involved,  —  that  when  he  arose  to 
preach,  to  nine-tenths  of  the  congregation 
he  would  not  be  Frederick  Brent,  student, 
but  "  old  Tom  Brent's  boy."  He  recoiled 
from  the  thought. 

Many  a  fireside  saint  has  said,  "  Why  did 


144     The  Uncalled 

not  Savonarola  tempt  the  hot  ploughshares  ? 
God  would  not  have  let  them  burn  him.'* 
Faith  is  a  beautiful  thing.  But  Savonarola 
had  the  ploughshares  at  his  feet.  The  chil 
dren  of  Israel  stepped  into  the  Red  Sea 
before  the  waters  parted,  but  then  Moses 
was  with  them,  and,  what  was  more,  Pharaoh 
was  behind  them. 

At  home,  the  intelligence  of  what  Brent 
was  to  do  was  received  in  different  manner 
by  Mrs.  Hodges  and  her  husband.  The 
good  lady  launched  immediately  into  a  lec 
ture  on  the  duty  that  was  placed  in  his 
hands  ;  but  Eliphalet  was  silent  as  they  sat 
at  the  table.  He  said  nothing  until  after 
supper  was  over,  and  then  he  whispered  to 
his  young  friend  as  he  started  to  his  room, 
"  I  know  jest  how  you  feel,  Freddie.  It 
seems  that  I  oughtn't  to  call  you  that  now; 
but  I  'low  you  '11  allus  be  c  Freddie '  to  me." 

"  Don't  ever  call  me  anything  else,  if  you 
please,  Uncle  'Liph,"  said  the  young  man, 
pressing  Eliphalet's  hand. 

"  I  think  I  kin  understand  you  better 
than  most  people,"  Mr.  Hodges  went  on ; 
"  an'  I  know  it  ain't  no  easy  task  that 
you  Ve  got  before  you." 

"  You  've  always    understood    me    better 


The  Uncalled      145 

than  any  one,  and  —  and  I  wish  you  knew 
what  it  has  meant  to  me,  and  that  I  could 
thank  you  somehow." 

"'Sh,  my  boy.  It's  thanks  enough  to 
hear  them  words  from  you.  Now  you  jest 
calm  yoreself,  an'  when  Sunday  comes  —  I 
don't  know  as  I  'd  ought  to  say  it  this  way, 
but  I  mean  it  all  in  a  Christian  sperrit  — 
when  Sunday  comes,  Freddie,  my  boy,  you 
jest  go  in  an'  give  'em  fits." 

The  two  parted  with  another  pressure  of 
the  hand,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
old  man  looked  a  little  bit  sheepish  when 
his  wife  hoped  he  had  been  giving  Fred 
good  advice. 

"  You  don't  reckon,  Hester,  that  I  'd  give 
him  any  other  kind,  do  you  ? " 

"Not  intentionally,  'Liphalet;  but  when 
it  comes  to  advice,  there  's  p'ints  o'  view." 
Mrs.  Hodges  seemed  suspicious  of  her  hus 
band's  capabilities  as  an  adviser. 

"  There 's  some  times  when  people  'd  a 
good  deal  ruther  have  sympathy  than 
advice." 

"  An'  I  reckon,  'cordin'  to  yore  way  o' 
thinkin'  this  is  one  o'  them.  Well,  I  in 
tend  to  try  to  do  my  dooty  in  this  matter, 
a.s  I  've  tried  to  do  it  all  along." 

IQ 


146      The  Uncalled 

"  Hester,  yore  dooty  '11  kill  you  yit.  It 's 
a  wonder  you  don't  git  tired  a-lookin'  it  in 
the  face." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  skirk  it,  jest  to  live  in 
pleasure  an'  ease." 

"  No  need  o'  shirking  Hester,  no  need  o' 
shirkin' ;  but  they 's  some  people  that 
would  n't  be  content  without  rowin'  down 


stream." 


"An'  then,  mind  you,  'Liphalet,  I  ain't 
a-exchangin'  words  with  you,  fur  that 's  idle 
ness,  but  there  's  others,  that  would  n't  row 
up  stream,  but  'ud  wait  an'  hope  fur  a  wind 
to  push  'em."  These  impersonalities  were 
as  near  "  spatting "  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hodges  ever  got. 

Through  all  the  community  that  clustered 
about  Mr.  Simpson's  church  and  drew  its 
thoughts,  ideas,  and  subjects  of  gossip  there 
from,  ran  like  wildfire  the  news  that  at  last 
they  were  to  have  a  chance  to  judge  of 
young  Brent's  merits  for  themselves.  It 
caused  a  stir  among  old  and  young,  and  in 
the  days  preceding  the  memorable  Sunday 
little  else  was  talked  of. 

When  it  reached  the  ears  of  old  Dan'l 
Hastings,  who .  limped  around  now  upon 
two  canes,  but  was  as  acrimonious  as  ever, 


The  Uncalled      147 

he  exclaimed,  tapping  the  ground  with  one 
of  his  sticks  for  emphasis,  "  What !  that 
young  Brent  preachin'  in  our  church,  in  our 
minister's  pulpit!  It's  a  shame,  —  an'  he 
the  born  son  of  old  Tom  Brent,  that  all  the 
town  knows  was  the  worst  sinner  here 
abouts.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  go ;  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  go." 

"  Don't  you  be  afeared  to  go,  Dan'l  : 
there  ain't  no  danger  that  his  docterns  air  a- 
goin'  to  be  as  strong  as  his  father's  whisky," 
said  his  old  enemy. 

"  Oh,  it 's  fur  the  likes  o'  you,  Thomas 
Donaldson,  to  be  a-talkin'  o'  docterns  an' 
whisky  in  the  same  breath.  You  never 
did  have  no  reverence,"  said  the  old  man, 
testily. 

"  An'  yet,  Dan'l,  I  've  found  docterns  an' 
whisky  give  out  by  the  same  breath." 

Mr.  Hastings  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  notice  this  remark.  He  went  on  with  his 
tirade  against  the  prospective  "  supply  :  " 
"  Why  can't  Elder  Simpson  preach  hisself, 
I  'd  like  to  know,  instead  o'  puttin'  up  that 
young  upstart  to  talk  to  his  betters  ?  Why, 
I  mind  the  time  that  that  boy  had  to  be  took 
out  o'  church  by  the  hand  fur  laffin'  at  me,  — 
at  me,  mind  you,"  the  old  man  repeated, 


148     The  Uncalled 

shaking  his  stick  ;  "  laffin'  at  me  when  I  was 
expoundin'  the  word." 

"That's  ter'ble,  Dan'l  ;  fur,  as  fur  as  I 
kin  ricollec',  when  you  're  a-expoundin'  the 
word  it  ain't  no  laffin'  matter." 

"  I  tell  you,  Thomas  Donaldson,  the 
world's  a-goin'  down  hill  fast :  but  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  help  it  along.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
hear  that  Brent  boy  preach." 

This  declaration,  however,  did  not  prevent 
the  venerable  Dan'l  from  being  early  in  his 
seat  on  the  following  Sunday  morning, 
sternly,  uncompromisingly  critical. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  church 
was  crowded.  Friends,  enemies,  and  the 
merely  curious  filled  the  seats  and  blocked 
the  aisles.  The  chapel  had  been  greatly  en 
larged  to  accommodate  its  growing  congrega 
tion,  but  on  this  day  it  was  totally  inadequate 
to  hold  the  people  who  flocked  to  its  doors. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson  was  so  far  re 
covered  from  his  indisposition  as  to  be  able 
to  be  present  and  assist  at  the  service.  Eliz 
abeth  was  there,  looking  proud  and  happy 
and  anxious.  Mrs.  Hodges  was  in  her  ac 
customed  place  on  the  ladies'  side  of  the  pul 
pit.  She  had  put  new  strings  to  her  bonnet 
in  honour  of  the  occasion.  Her  face  wore  a 


The  Uncalled      149 

look  of  great  seventy.  An  unregenerate 
wag  in  the  back  part  of  the  church  pointed 
her  out  to  his  companions  and  remarked  that 
she  looked  as  if  she  'd  spank  the  preacher  if 
he  did  n't  do  well.  "  Poor  fellow,  if  he  sees 
that  face  he  '11  break  down,  sure."  Oppo 
site,  in  the  "  amen  corner/'  the  countenance 
of  the  good  Eliphalet  was  a  study  in  chang 
ing  expressions.  It  was  alternately  possessed 
by  fear,  doubt,  anxiety,  and  exultation. 

Sophy  Davis  sat  in  a  front  seat,  spick  and 
span  in  a  new  dress,  which  might  have  been 
made  for  the  occasion.  People  said  that  she 
was  making  eyes  at  her  young  fellow-sales 
man,  though  she  was  older  than  he.  Mrs. 
Martin  and  her  friend  whispered  together  a 
little  farther  back. 

A  short  time  before  the  service  began, 
Brent  entered  by  a  side  door  near  the  pulpit 
and  ascended  to  his  place.  His  entrance 
caused  a  marked  sensation.  His  appearance 
was  impressive.  The  youthfuljace  was  white 
and  almost  rigid  in  its  lines.  "  Scared  to 
death,"  was  the  mental  note  of  a  good  many 
who  saw  him.  But  his  step  was  firm.  As 
Elizabeth  looked  at  him,  she  felt  proud  that 
such  a  man  loved  her.  He  was  not  hand 
some.  His  features  were  irregular,  but  his 


150     The  Uncalled 

eyes  were  clear  and  fearless.  If  a  certain 
cowardice  had  held  him  back  from  this  ordeal, 
it  was  surely  not  because  he  trembled  for 
himself.  The  life  he  had  lived  and  the 
battles  he  had  fought  had  given  a  compres 
sion  to  his  lips  that  corrected  a  natural  ten 
dency  to  weakness  in  his  mouth.  His  head 
was  set  squarely  on  his  broad  shoulders.  He 
was  above  medium  height,  but  not  loosely 
framed.  He  looked  the  embodiment  of 
strength. 

"  He  ain't  a  bit  like  his  father,"  said  some 
one. 

"He's  like  his  father  was  in  his  best 
days,"  replied  another. 

"  He  don't  look  like  he 's  over-pleased 
with  the  business.  They  say  he  did  n't  want 
to  come." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it 's  purty  resky  work 
gittin'  up  to  speak  before  all  these  people 
that 's  knowed  him  all  his  life,  an'  know 
where  an'  what  he  come  from." 

"They  say, 'too,  that  he's  some  pumpkins 
out  at  the  college." 

"  I  'ain't  much  faith  in  these  school-made 
preachers;  but  we'll  soon  see  what  he  kin 
do  in  the  pulpit.  We  Ve  heerd  preachers, 
an*  we  kin  compare." 


The  Uncalled      151 

"  That 's  so  :  we  've  heerd  some  preachers 
in  our  day.  He  must  toe  the  mark.  He 
may  be  all  right  at  college,  but  he 's  in  a 
pulpit  now  that  has  held  preachers  fur  shore. 
A  pebble's  all  right  among  pebbles,  but  it 
looks  mighty  small  'longside  o'  boulders. 
He's  preachin'  before  people  now.  Why, 
Brother  Simpson  himself  never  would  'a'  got 
a  special  dispensation  to  hold  the  church  all 
these  years,  ef  it  had  n't  been  fur  the  people 
backin'  him  up  an'  Conference  was  afraid 
they  'd  leave  the  connection." 

"  Well,    ef  this    boy    is    anything,    Lord 
only  knows  where  he  gets  it,  fur  everybody 
knows  —  " 
"'Sh!" 

The  buzz  which  had  attended  the  young 
speaker's  entrance  subsided  as  Mr.  Simpson 
rose  and  gave  out  the  hymn.  That  finished, 
he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  front  seats  of  the 
assembly  and  then  said,  "  Brother  Hastings, 
lead  us  in  prayer." 

The  old  man  paused  for  an  instant  as  if 
surprised,  and  then  got  slowly  to  his  knees. 
It  was  a  strange  selection,  but  we  have  seen 
that  this  particular  parson  was  capable  of 
doing  strange  things.  In  the  course  of  a 
supplication  of  some  fifteen  minutes'  dura- 


152     The  Uncalled 

tion,  Brother  Hastings  managed  to  vent  his 
spleen  upon  the  people  and  to  pay  the  Lord 
a  few  clumsy  compliments.  During  the 
usual  special  blessing  which  is  asked  upon 
the  preacher  of  the  hour,  he  prayed,  "  O 
Lord,  let  not  the  rarin'  horses  of  his  youth 
run  away  with  Thy  chariot  of  eternal  truth. 
Lord,  cool  his  head  and  warm  his  heart  and 
settle  him  firm.  Grant  that  he  may  fully 
realise  where  he's  a-standin'  at,  an'  who  he  's 
a-speakin'  to.  Do  Thou  not  let  him  speak, 
but  speak  through  him,  that  Thy  gospel 
may  be  preached  to-day  as  Thy  prophets  of 
old  preached  it." 

Throughout  the  prayer,  but  one  thought 
was  running  through  Frederick  Brent's 
mind,  and  his  heart  was  crying  in  its  an 
guish,  "  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  why  do 
they  hound  me  so  ?  " 

It  is  a  terrible  thing,  this  first  effort  before 
the  home  people,  especially  when  home  has 
not  been  kind. 

When  he  arose  to  meet  the  people's  eyes, 
his  face  was  haggard  and  he  felt  weak. 
But  unflinchingly  he  swept  his  eyes  over 
the  crowd,  and  that  instant's  glance  brought 
before  him  all  the  panorama  of  the  past 
years.  There  before  him  was  the  sneaking 


The   Uncalled      153 

Billy  Tompkins,  now  grown  to  the  matu 
rity  of  being  called  "  Bill."  Then  there 
was  Dan'l  Hastings.  Oh,  that  night,  years 
ago,  when  he  had  been  marched  up  the  aisle 
with  crimson  face!  In  one  brief  second  he 
lived  it  all  over  again,  the  shame,  the  dis 
grace,  the  misery  of  it.  There,  severe, 
critical,  expectant,  sat  his  guardian,  the  mas 
ter-hand  who  had  manipulated  all  the  ma 
chinery  of  his  life.  All  this  passed  through 
his  mind  in  a  flash,  as  he  stood  there  facing 
the  people.  His  face  changed.  The  hag 
gard  look  passed  away.  His  eyes  kindled, 
his  cheeks  mantled.  Even  in  the  pulpit, 
even  in  the  house  of  God,  about  to  speak 
His  word,  the  blood  sped  hotly  through  his 
veins,  and  anger  burned  at  his  heart.  But 
he  crushed  down  his  feelings  for  the  mo 
ment,  and  began  in  a  clear  ringing  voice, 
"  Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.  For 
with  what  judgment  ye  judge,  ye  shall  be 
judged,  and  with  what  measure  ye  mete,  it 
shall  be  measured  to  you  again."  The 
lesson  he  drew  from  the  words  was  God's 
recognition  of  the  fallibility  of  human  judg 
ment,  and  the  self-condemnation  brought 
about  by  ignoring  the  prohibition  in  the 
text.  By  an  effort,  he  spoke  deliberately 


154     The  Uncalled 

at  first,  but  the  fire  in  his  heart  came  out 
more  and  more  in  his  words  as  he  progressed. 
"  Blinded  by  our  own  prejudices,"  he  said, 
"  circumscribed  by  our  own  ignorance,  we 
dare  to  set  ourselves  up  as  censors  of  our 
fellow-men.  Unable  to  see  the  whole  chain 
of  life  which  God  has  forged,  we  take  a 
single  link  and  say  that  it  is  faulty.  Too 
narrow  to  see  His  broad  plan,  we  take  a 
patch  of  it  and  say,  c  This  is  not  good/ 
There  is  One  who  works  even  through  evil 
that  good  may  come,  but  we  take  the  sin 
of  our  brother,  and,  without  seeing  or  know 
ing  what  went  before  it  or  shall  come  after, 
condemn  him.  What  false,  blind,  petty 
judges  we  are  !  You  women  who  are  con 
demning  your  fallen  sisters,  you  men  who 
are  execrating  your  sinful  brothers,  if  Christ 
to-day  were  to  command,  (  Let  him  who  is 
without  sin  cast  the  first  stone/  look  into 
your  own  hearts  and  answer  me,  how  many 
of  you  would  dare  to  lift  a  hand  ?  How 
many  of  you  have  taken  the  beam  out  of 
your  own  eye  before  attempting  to  pluck 
the  mote  out  of  your  brother's  ?  O  ye 
pharisaical  ones,  who  stand  in  the  public 
places  and  thank  God  that  you  are  not  as 
other  men,  beware,  beware.  The  condemna- 


The  Uncalled      155 

tion  that  surely  and  inevitably  shall  fall  upon 
you  is  not  the  judgment  of  Jesus  Christ. 
It  is  not  the  sentence  of  the  Father.  It  is 
your  own  self-condemnation,  without  charity, 
without  forbearance,  without  love  ;  '  for  with 
what  judgment  ye  judge  ye  shall  be  judged/ 
"  Stand  by  the  wayside  if  you  will.  Draw 
aside  your  skirts  in  the  vainglory  of  self- 
righteousness  from  the  passing  multitude. 
Say  to  each  other,  if  you  will,  c  This  woman 
is  a  sinner:  this  man  is  a  criminal.'  Close 
your  eyes  against  their  acts  of  repentance, 
harden  your  hearts  against  their  pleas  for 
forgiveness,  withhold  mercy  and  pardon  and 
charity ;  but  I  tell  you  of  One  who  has  ex 
alted  charity  into  the  highest  and  best  of 
virtues.  I  bring  you  the  message  of  One 
whose  judgment  is  tempered  by  divine  love. 
He  is  seeing  you.  He  is  hearing  you. 
Over  the  parapets  of  high  heaven  the  gentle 
Father  leans  waiting  to  take  into  His  soul 
any  breath  of  human  love  or  charity  which 
floats  up  to  Him  from  this  sin-parched 
world.  What  have  you  done  to  merit  His 
approval  ?  Have  you  been  kind,  or  have 
you  been  hard  ?  Have  you  been  gentle,  or 
have  you  been  harsh  ?  Have  you  been 
charitable,  or  have  you  hunted  out  all  the 


156     The  Uncalled 

evil  and  closed  your  eyes  to  all  the  good? 
You  have  forgotten,  O  ye  of  little  faith,  you 
have  forgotten,  you  without  chanty  in  your 
hearts,  and  you  who  claim  to  follow  Christ 
and  yet  have  no  love  for  your  fellows, — 
you  have  forgotten  that  God  is  a  God  of 
wrath  as  well  as  of  love ;  that  Christ  hath 
anger  as  well  as  pity  ;  that  He  who  holds 
the  hyssop  of  divine  mercy  holds  also  the 
scourge  of  divine  indignation.  You  have 
forgotten  that  the  lash  you  so  love  to  wield 
over  your  brother's  back  shall  be  laid  upon 
your  own  by  Him  who  whipped  the  money 
changers  from  His  temple.  Listen !  The 
day  shall  come  when  the  condemnation  you 
are  accumulating  against  yourselves  shall 
overwhelm  you.  Stop  trying  to  steal  the 
prerogative  of  heaven.  Judge  not.  God 
only  is  just! " 

The  silence  throughout  the  sermon  was 
intense.  During  the  closing  words  which 
have  been  quoted,  it  was  like  a  presence  in 
the  chapel.  The  voice  of  the  preacher  rang 
out  like  a  clarion.  His  eyes  looked  before 
him  as  if  he  saw  into  the  future.  His  hand 
was  uplifted  as  if  he  would  call  down  upon 
them  the  very  judgment  which  he  predicted. 

Without   more  words  he  sat  down.     No 


The  Uncalled      157 

one  moved  or  spoke  for  an  instant.  Dan'l 
Hastings  let  his  cane  fall  upon  the  floor. 
It  echoed  through  the  silent  place  with  a 
crash.  Some  of  the  women  started  and  half 
cried  out ;  but  the  spell  was  now  partly 
broken.  Mr.  Simpson  suddenly  remem 
bered  to  pray,  and  the  gossips  forgot  to 
whisper  when  their  heads  were  bowed.  There 
were  some  pale  faces  in  the  crowd,  and  some 
which  the  galling  of  tears  had  made  red. 
There  was  in  the  atmosphere  something  of 
the  same  tense  silence  that  follows  a  terrific 
thunder-clap.  And  so  the  service  ended, 
and  the  people  filed  out  of  church  silent 
still.  Some  few  remained  behind  to  shake 
the  preacher's  hand,  but  as  soon  as  the  bene 
diction  was  over  he  hurried  out  the  side 
door,  and,  before  any  one  could  intercept 
him,  was  on  his  way  home.  But  he  left  a 
willing  substitute.  Mrs.  Hodges  accepted 
all  his  congratulations  with  complacent 
condescension. 

"  Dan'l,"  said  Thomas  Donaldson,  as  he 
helped  the  old  man  down  the  church  steps, 
"  I  was  mistaken  about  the  docterns  an'  the 
whisky.  It  was  stronger  an'  better,  be 
cause  it  was  the  pure  stuff." 

"I  'ain't  got  a  word  to  say,"  said  Dan'l, 


158    The  Uncalled 

"'ceptin'  that  a  good  deal  of  it  was  jest  sass." 
But  he  kept  mumbling  to  himself  as  he 
hobbled  along,  "  Jedge  not,  fur  you  're 
a-pilin'  up  sentences  on  yoreself.  I  never 
thought  of  it  that  way  before  ;  no,  I  never." 

Brent  did  not  come  out  of  his  room  to 
dinner  that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Hodges  was 
for  calling  him,  but  the  old  man  objected. 
"  No,  Hester,"  he  said,  "  Freddie  jest  wants 
to  be  let  alone.  He's  a-feelin'  now." 

"  But,  'Liphalet,  he  ought  to  know  how 
nice  people  talked  about  his  sermon.  I 
tell  you  that  was  my  kind  o'  doctern.  It 's 
wonderful  how  a  child  will  learn." 

Notwithstanding  his  belief  that  his  young 
friend  wanted  to  be  left  alone,  the  old  man 
slipped  into  his  room  later  on  with  a  cup 
of  tea.  The  young  man  sat  before  the 
table,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  Eli- 
phalet  set  the  cup  and  saucer  down  and 
turned  to  go,  but  he  paused  at  the  door  and 
said,  "  Thank  the  Lord  fur  the  way  you 
give  it  to  'em,  Freddie.  It  was  worth  a 
dollar."  He  would  have  hurried  out,  but 
the  young  man  sprang  up  and  seized  his 
hand,  exclaiming,  "  It  was  wrong,  Uncle 
'Liph,  it  was  wrong  of  me.  I  saw  them 
sitting  about  me  like  jackals  waiting  for 


The   Uncalled      159 

their  prey ;  I  remembered  all  that  I  had 
been  and  all  that  I  was ;  I  knew  what  they 
were  thinking,  and  I  was  angry,  angry. 
God  forgive  me  !  That  sermon  was  preached 
from  as  hot  a  heart  as  ever  did  murder." 

The  old  man  stroked  the  young  one's 
hair  as  he  would  a  child's.  "  Never  mind," 
he  said.  "  It  don't  matter  what  you  felt. 
That 's  between  you  an'  Him.  I  only 
know  what  you  said,  an'  that 's  all  I  care 
about.  Didn't  you  speak  about  the  Lord 
a-whippin'  the  money-changers  from  the 
temple  ?  Ain't  lots  o'  them  worse  than 
the  money-changers  ?  Was  n't  Christ  di 
vine  ?  Ain't  you  human  ?  Would  a  body 
expect  you  to  feel  less  'n  He  did  ?  Huh  ! 
jest  don't  you  worry ;  remember  that  you 
did  n't  hit  a  head  that  was  n't  in  striking  dis 
tance."  And  the  old  man  pressed  the  boy 
back  into  his  chair  and  slipped  out. 


CHAPTER    XII 

BESIDE  an  absolute  refusal  again  to 
supply,  Brent  made  no  sign  of  the 
rebellion  which  was  in  him,  and  his  second 
year  slipped  quickly  and  uneventfully  away. 
He  went  to  and  from  his  duties  silent  and 
self-contained.  He  did  not  confide  in  Mr. 
Hodges,  because  his  guardian  seemed  to 
grow  more  and  more  jealous  of  their  friend 
ship.  He  could  not  confide  in  Elizabeth, 
on  account  of  a  growing  conviction  that 
she  did  not  fully  sympathise  with  him. 
But  his  real  feelings  may  be  gathered  from 
a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Taylor 
some  two  months  after  the  events  recorded 
in  the  last  chapter. 

"  MY  DEAR  TAYLOR,"  it  ran,  u  time  and  again 
I  have  told  myself  that  I  would  write  you  a  line, 
keeping  you  in  touch,  as  I  promised,  with  my 
progress.  Many  times  have  I  thought  of  our 
last  talk  together,  and  still  I  think  as  I  thought 
then  —  that,  in  spite  of  all  your  disadvantages 
and  your  defeats,  you  have  the  best  of  it.  When 
you  fail,  it  is  your  own  failure,  and  you  bear  down 


The  Uncalled     161 

with  you  only  your  own  hopes  and  struggles  and 
ideals.  If  I  fail,  there  falls  with  me  all  the  frame 
work  of  pride  and  anxiety  that  has  so  long  pushed 
me  forward  and  held  me  up.  For  my  own  fail 
ure  I  should  not  sorrow  :  my  concern  would  be 
for  the  one  who  has  so  carefully  shaped  me  after 
a  pattern  of  her  own.  However  else  one  may 
feel,  one  must  be  fair  to  the  ambitions  of  others, 
even  though  one  is  the  mere  material  that  is 
heated  and  beaten  into  form  on  the  anvil  of  an 
other's  will.  But  I  am  ripe  for  revolt.  The 
devil  is  in  me,  —  a  restrained,  quiet,  well-appear 
ing  devil,  but  all  the  more  terrible  for  that. 

"  I  have  at  last  supplied  one  of  the  pulpits  here, 
that  of  my  own  church.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson 
was  afflicted  with  a  convenient  and  adaptable  in 
disposition  which  would  not  allow  him  to  preach, 
and  I  was  deputed  to  fill  his  place.  I  knew  what 
a  trial  it  would  be,  and  had  carefully  written  out 
my  sermon,  but  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  adhere  very 
strictly  to  the  manuscript.  I  think  I  lost  my  head. 
I  know  I  lost  my  temper.  But  the  sermon  was 
a  nine  days'  wonder,  and  I  have  had  to  refuse  a 
dozen  subsequent  offers  to  supply.  It  is  all  very 
sordid  and  sickening  and  theatrical.  The  good 
old  Lowry  tried  to  show  me  that  it  was  my  duty 
and  for  my  good,  but  I  have  set  my  foot  down  not 
to  supply  again,  and  so  they  let  me  alone  now. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  that  one  sermon  forged 
a  chain  which  holds  me  in  a  position  that  I  hate, 
ii 


162,     The  Uncalled 

It  is  a  public  declaration  that  I  am  or  mean  to  be 
a  preacher,  and  I  must  either  adhere  to  it  or  break 
desperately  away.  Do  you  know,  I  feel  myself  to 
be  an  arrant  coward.  If  I  had  half  the  strength  that 
you  have,  I  should  have  been  out  of  it  long  ago ; 
but  the  habit  of  obedience  grows  strong  upon  a 
man. 

"  There  is  but  one  crowning  act  to  be  added 
to  this  drama  of  deceit  and  infamy,  —  my  ordina 
tion.  I  know  how  all  the  other  fellows  are  look 
ing  forward  to  it,  and  how,  according  to  all  the 
prescribed  canons,  I  should  view  the  momentous 
day ;  but  I  am  I.  Have  you  ever  had  one  of 
those  dreams  where  a  huge  octopus  approaches 
you  slowly  but  certainly,  enfolding  you  in  his 
arms  and  twining  his  horrid  tentacles  about  your 
helpless  form  ?  What  an  agony  of  dread  you 
feel !  You  try  to  move  or  cry  out,  but  you  can 
not,  and  the  arms  begin  to  embrace  you  and  draw 
you  towards  the  great  body.  Just  so  I  feel  about 
the  day  of  the  ceremony  that  shall  take  me  into 
the  body  of  which  I  was  never  destined  to  be  a 
member. 

"  Are  you  living  in  a  garret  ?  Are  you  subsist 
ing  on  a  crust?  Happy,  happy  fellow!  But, 
thank  God,  the  ordination  does  not  take  place 
until  next  year,  and  perhaps  in  that  time  I  may 
find  some  means  of  escape.  If  I  do  not,  I  know 
that  I  shall  have  your  sympathy ;  but  don't  express 
it.  Ever  sincerely  yours,  BRENT." 


The  Uncalled     163 

But  the  year  was  passing,  and  nothing 
happened  to  release  him.  He  found  him 
self  being  pushed  forward  at  the  next  term 
with  unusual  rapidity,  but  he  did  not  mind 
it ;  the  work  rather  gave  him  relief  from 
more  unpleasant  thoughts.  He  went  at 
it  with  eagerness  and  mastered  it  with  ease. 
His  fellow-students  looked  on  him  with 
envy,  but  he  went  on  his  way  unheeding 
and  worked  for  the  very  love  of  being 
active,  until  one  day  he  understood. 

It  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  term  when 
a  fellow-student  remarked  to  him,  "  Well, 
Brent,  it  is  n't  every  man  that  could  have 
done  it,  but  you  '11  get  your  reward  in  a 
month  or  so  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Brent. 
"Done  what?" 

"  Now  don't  be  modest,"  rejoined  the 
other;  "I  am  really  glad  to  see  you  do  it. 
I  have  no  envy." 

"  Really,  Barker,  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Why,  I  mean  you  are  finishing  two  years 
in  one." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  it  will  hardly  amount  to 
that." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  will  get  in  with  the  senior 
class  men." 


164      The  Uncalled 

"  Get  in  with  the  senior  class  !  " 

"It  will  be  kind  of  nice,  a  year  before  your 
time,  to  be  standing  in  the  way  of  any  ap 
pointive  plums  that  may  happen  to  fall ;  and 
then  you  don't  have  to  go  miles  away  from 
home  before  you  can  be  made  a  full-fledged 
shepherd.  Well,  here  is  my  hand  on  it 
anyway." 

Brent  took  the  proffered  hand  in  an  almost 
dazed  condition.  It  had  all  suddenly  flashed 
across  his  mind,  the  reason  for  his  haste  and 
his  added  work.  What  a  blind  fool  he  had 
been  ! 

The  Church  Conference  met  at  Dexter 
that  year,  and  they  had  hurried  him  through 
in  order  that  he  might  be  ready  for  ordina 
tion  thereat. 

Alleging  illness  as  an  excuse,  he  did  not 
appear  at  recitation  that  day.  The  shock 
had  come  too  suddenly  for  him.  Was  he 
thus  to  be  entrapped  ?  Could  he  do  nothing  ? 
He  felt  that  ordination  would  bind  him  for 
ever  to  the  distasteful  work.  He  had  only 
a  month  in  which  to  prevent  it.  He  would 
do  it.  From  that  day  he  tried  to  fall  grad 
ually  back  in  his  work  ;  but  it  was  too  late ; 
the  good  record  which  he  had  unwittingly 
piled  up  carried  him  through,  nolens  volens. 


The  Uncalled      165 

The  week  before  Conference  met,  Fred 
erick  Brent,  residing  at  Dexter,  by  special 
request  of  the  faculty,  was  presented  as  a  can 
didate  for  ordination.  Even  his  enemies  in 
the  community  said,  "  Surely  there  is  some 
thing  in  that  boy." 

Mrs.  Hester  Hodges  was  delighted.  She 
presented  him  with  his  ordination  suit,  and 
altogether  displayed  a  pride  and  pleasure  that 
almost  reconciled  the  young  man  to  his  fate. 
In  the  days  immediately  preceding  the  event 
she  was  almost  tender  with  him,  and  if  he 
had  been  strong  enough  to  make  a  resolve 
inimical  to  her  hopes,  the  disappointment 
which  he  knew  failure  would  bring  to  her 
would  have  greatly  weakened  it. 

Now,  Conference  is  a  great  event  in  the 
circles  of  that  sect  of  which  Cory  Chapel  was 
a  star  congregation,  and  the  town  where  it 
convenes,  or  "  sets,"  as  the  popular  phrase 
goes,  is  an  honoured  place.  It  takes  upon 
itself  an  air  of  unusual  bustle.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  house-cleaning,  hanging  of  cur 
tains,  and  laying  of  carpets,  just  prior  to  the 
time.  People  from  the  rural  parts  about 
come  into  town  and  settle  for  the  week. 
Ministers  and  lay  delegates  from  all  the 
churches  in  the  district,  comprising  perhaps 


1 66      The  Uncalled 

half  of  a  large  State  or  parts  of  two,  come 
and  are  quartered  upon  the  local  members  of 
the  connection.  For  two  weeks  beforehand 
the  general  question  that  passes  from  one 
housewife  to  another  is,  "  How  many  and 
whom  are  you  going  to  take  P "  Many  are 
the  heartburnings  and  jealousies  aroused  by 
the  disposition  of  some  popular  preacher 
whom  a  dozen  members  of  the  flock  desire  to 
entertain,  while  the  less  distinguished  visitors 
must  bide  their  time  and  be  stuck  in  when 
and  where  they  may.  The  "  big  guns  "  of 
the  Church  are  all  present,  and  all  the  "  little 
guns  "  are  scattered  about  them,  popping  and 
snapping  every  time  a  "  big  gun  "  booms. 

But  of  all  the  days  of  commotion  and  ex 
citement,  the  climax  is  ordination  day,  when 
candidates  for  the  ministry,  college  students, 
and  local  preachers  are  examined  and  either 
rejected  or  admitted  to  the  company  of  the 
elect.  It  is  common  on  that  day  for  some 
old  dignitary  of  the  church,  seldom  a  less 
person  than  the  president  of  the  Con 
ference  himself,  to  preach  the  sermon.  Then, 
if  the  fatted  calf  is  not  killed,  at  least  the 
fatted  fowls  are,  and  feasting  and  rejoicing 
rule  the  occasion. 

This  ordination  day  was  no  exception.    A 


The  Uncalled      167 

class  of  ten  stood  up  before  the  examining 
committee  and  answered  the  questions  put  to 
them.  Among  them  stood  Frederick  Brent. 
He  wished,  he  tried,  to  fail  in  his  answers 
and  be  rejected,  even  though  it  meant  dis 
grace  ;  but,  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not. 
Force  of  habit  was  too  strong  for  him  ;  or 
was  it  that  some  unseen  and  relentless  power 
was  carrying  him  on  and  on  against  his  will  ? 
He  clinched  his  hands ;  the  beads  of  per 
spiration  broke  out  on  his  brow ;  but  ever 
as  the  essential  questions  came  to  him  his 
tongue  seemed  to  move  of  its  own  volition, 
without  command  from  the  brain,  and  the 
murmurs  of  approval  told  him  that  he  was 
answering  aright.  Never  did  man  struggle 
harder  for  brilliant  success  than  this  one  for 
ignominious  failure.  Then  some  whisper  in 
his  consciousness  told  him  that  it  was  over. 
He  felt  the  laying  of  hands  upon  his  head. 
He  heard  the  old  minister  saying,  "  Behold, 
even  from  the  lowliest  God  taketh  His 
workers,"  and  he  felt  a  flash  of  resentment, 
but  it  was  .only  momentary.  Fie  was  be 
numbed.  Something  seemed  to  be  saying  in 
his  mind,  "Will  the  old  fool  never  have 
done  ? "  But  it  did  not  appear  to  be  him 
self.  It  was  afar  off  and  apart  from  him. 


1 68    The  Uncalled 

The  next  he  knew,  a  wet  cheek  was  laid 
against  his  own.  It  was  Aunt  Hester.  She 
was  crying  and  holding  his  hand.  Afterwards 
people  were  shaking  hands  with  him  and 
offering  their  congratulations ;  but  he 
answered  them  in  a  helpless,  mechanical  way, 
as  he  had  answered  the  questions. 

He  sat  through  the  sermon  and  heard  it 
not.  But  some  interest  revived  in  him  as 
the  appointments  were  being  read.  He 
heard  the  president  say,  "  It  gives  me  pain  to 
announce  the  resignation  of  one  who  has  so 
long  served  in  the  Master's  vineyard,  but 
our  dear  brother  Simpson  has  decided  that 
he  is  too  old  for  active  work,  and  has  asked 
to  be  retired.  While  we  do  this  with  pain 
and  sorrow  for  the  loss  —  though  we  do  not 
wholly  lose  him  —  of  so  able  a  man,  we  feel 
that  we  cannot  do  better  than  appoint  as  his 
successor  in  this  charge  the  young  man  whom 
you  have  all  seen  so  brilliantly  enter  into  the 
ranks  of  consecrated  workers,  the  Rev. 
Frederick  Brent." 

A  murmur  of  approval  went  round  the 
assembly,  and  a  few  open  "  amens  "  broke 
forth  as  the  unctuous  old  ecclesiastic  sat 
down.  It  sounded  to  the  ears  of  the  young 
preacher  like  the  breaking  of  waves  on  a  far- 


The  Uncalled      169 

off  shore  ;  and  then  the  meaning  of  all  that 
had  happened  sifted  through  his  benumbed 
intellect,  and  he  strove  to  rise.  He  would 
refuse  to  act.  He  would  protest.  He 
would  tell  them  that  he  did  not  want  to 
preach.  But  something  held  him  down. 
He  could  not  rise.  The  light  went  blue 
and  green  and  purple  before  him.  The 
church,  with  its  sea  of  faces,  spun  round  and 
round ;  his  head  fell  forward. 

"  He  has  fainted,"  said  some  one. 

"  The  excitement  has  been  too  much  for 
him/' 

"  Poor  young  man,  he  has  been  studying 
too  hard,  working  for  this." 

They  carried  him  out  and  took  him  home, 
and  one  of  the  elders  offered  a  special  prayer 
for  his  speedy  recovery,  and  that,  being  re 
covered,  he  might  bear  his  new  responsibili 
ties  with  becoming  meekness. 

When  the  young  minister  came  to  him 
self,  he  was  lying  on  the  bed  in  his  own 
room,  and  Mrs.  Hodges,  Eliphalet,  and  a 
doctor  were  bending  over  him. 

"  He 's  coming  round  all  right  now," 
said  the  medical  man.  "  You  won't  need 
me  any  longer."  And  he  departed. 


170      The  Uncalled 

"How  are  you  now,  Fred?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hodges. 

The  young  man  closed  his  eyes  again  and 
did  not  answer.  He  had  awakened  to  a  full 
realisation  of  his  position,  and  a  dull  misery 
lay  at  his  heart.  He  wished  that  he  could 
die  then  and  there,  for  death  seemed  the 
only  escape  from  his  bondage.  He  was 
bound,  irrevocably  bound. 

"  Poor  child,"  Mrs.  Hodges  went  on,  "it 
was  awful  tryin'  on  his  nerves.  Joy  is 
worse 'n  sorrow,  sometimes  ;  an'  then  he'd 
been  workin'  so  hard.  I  'd  never  'a'  believed 
he  could  do  it,  ef  Brother  Simpson  hadn't 
stuck  up  fur  it." 

"  She  knew  it,  then,"  thought  Fred.  "  It 
was  all  planned." 

"  I  don't  think  you  'd  better  talk,  Hester," 
said  her  husband,  in  a  low  voice.  He  had 
seen  a  spasm  pass  over  the  face  of  the  pros 
trate  youth. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  out  an'  see  about  the  din 
ner.  Some  o'  the  folks  I  've  invited  will 
be  comin'  in  purty  soon,  an'  others  '11  be 
droppin'  in  to  inquire  how  he  is.  I  do  hope 
he  '11  be  well  enough  to  come  to  the  table : 
it  won't  seem  hardly  like  an  ordination  din 
ner  without  the  principal  person.  Jes'  set 


The  Uncalled      171 

by  him,  'Liphalet,  an'  give  him  them  drops 
the  doctor  left." 

As  soon  as  he  heard  the  door  close  behind 
her,  Brent  opened  his  eyes  and  suddenly 
laid  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder. 
"  You  won't  let  anybody  see  me,  Uncle 
'Liph  ?  you  won't  let  them  come  in  here  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  boy,  not  ef  you  don't  want 
'em,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  I  shall  have  to  think  it  all  over  before  I 
see  any  one.  I  am  not  quite  clear  yet." 

"  I  'low  it  was  unexpected." 

"  Did  you  know,  Uncle  'Liph  ?  "  he  asked, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  his  old  friend's  face. 

"  I  know'd  they  was  a-plannin'  somethin', 
but  I  never  could  find  out  what,  or  I  would 
have  told  you." 

A  look  of  relief  passed  over  Brent's  face. 
Just  then  Mrs.  Hodges  opened  the  door. 
"  Here's  Elizabeth  to  see  him,"  she  said. 

"'Sh,"  said  the  old  man  with  great  osten 
tation  ;  and  tiptoeing  over  to  the  door  he 
partly  drew  it  to,  putting  his  head  outside  to 
whisper,  "He  is  too  weak;  it  ain't  best  fur 
him  to  see  nobody  now." 

He  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  his 
seat.  "It  was  'Lizabeth,"  he  said.  "Was 
I  right  ? " 


i  72     The  Uncalled 

For  answer  the  patient  arose  from  the  bed 
and  walked  weakly  over  to  his  side. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,  Freddie,"  said  Eliphalet, 
hesitating  over  the  name.  " You'd  better 
lay  down  now  ;  you  ain't  any  too  strong  yet." 

The  young  man  leaned  heavily  on  his 
chair,  and  looked  into  his  friend's  eyes: 
"  If  God  had  given  me  such  a  man  as  you 
as  a  father,  or  even  as  a  guardian,  I  would 
not  have  been  damned,"  he  said. 

"'Sh,  'sh,  my  boy.  Don't  say  that. 
You  're  goin'  to  be  all  right ;  you  're  — 
you're  — "  Eliphalet's  eyes  were  moist, 
and  his  voice  choked  here.  Rising,  he  sud 
denly  threw  his  arms  around  Fred's  neck,  cry 
ing,  "  You  are  my  son.  God  has  give  you 
to  me  to  nurse  in  the  time  of  your  trial." 

The  young  man  returned  the  embrace  ; 
and  so  Mrs.  Hodges  found  them  when  she 
opened  the  door  softly  and  peered  in.  She 
closed  it  noiselessly  and  withdrew. 

"  Well,  I  never !  "  she  said.  There  was 
a  questioning  wonder  in  her  face. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  them 
two,"  she  added  ;  "  they  could  n't  have  been 
lovin'er  ef  they  had  been  father  and  son." 

After  a  while  the  guests  began  to  arrive 
for  the  dinner.  Many  were  the  inquiries 


The  Uncalled      173 

and  calls  for  the  new  minister,  but  to  them 
all  Eliphalet  made  the  same  answer :  "  He 
ain't  well  enough  to  see  folks." 

Mrs.  Hodges  herself  did  her  best  to  bring 
him  out,  or  to  get  him  to  let  some  of  the 
guests  in,  but  he  would  not.  Finally 
her  patience  gave  way,  and  she  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  now,  Frederick  Brent,  you  must 
know  that  you  air  the  pastor  of  a  church, 
an'  you  Ve  got  to  make  some  sacrifices  for 
people's  sake.  Ef  you  kin  possibly  git  up, 
—  an'  I  know  you  kin,  —  you  ought  to 
come  out  an'  show  yoreself  for  a  little  while, 
anyhow.  You  Ve  got  some  responsibilities 
now." 

"  I  did  n't  ask  for  them,"  he  answered, 
coldly.  There  was  a  set  look  about  his  lips. 
"  Neither  will  I  come  out  or  see  any  one. 
If  I  am  old  enough  to  be  the  pastor  of  a 
church,  I  am  old  enough  to  know  my  will 
and  have  it." 

Mrs.  Hodges  was  startled  at  the  speech. 
She  felt  vaguely  that  there  was  a  new  element 
in  the  boy's  character  since  morning*  He 
was  on  the  instant  a  man.  f  It  was  as  if  clay 
had  suddenly  hardened  in  the  potter's  hands. 
She  could  no  longer  mould  or  ply  him.  In 
that  moment  she  recognised  the  fact. 


174     The  Uncalled 

The  dinner  was  all  that  could  be  expected, 
and  her  visitors  enjoyed  it,  in  spite  of  the 
absence  of  the  guest  of  honour,  but  for  the 
hostess  it  was  a  dismal  failure.  After  wield 
ing  the  sceptre  for  years,  it  had  been  sud 
denly  snatched  from  her  hand ;  and  she  felt 
lost  and  helpless,  deprived  of  her  power. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

AS  Brent  thought  of  the  long  struggle 
before  him,  he  began  to  wish  that 
there  might  be  something  organically  wrong 
with  him  which  the  shock  would  irritate 
into  fatal  illness.  But  even  while  he  thought 
this  he  sneered  at  himself  for  the  weakness. 
A  weakness  self-confessed  holds  the  possi 
bility  of  strength.  So  in  a  few  days  he 
rallied  and  took  up  the  burden  of  his  life 
again.  As  before  he  had  found  relief  in 

o 

study,  now  he  stilled  his  pains  and  misgiv 
ings  by  a  strict  attention  to  the  work  which 
his  place  involved. 

His  was  not  an  easy  position  for  a  young 
man.  He  had  to  go  through  the  ordeal  of 
pastoral  visits.  He  had  to  condole  with 
old  ladies  who  thought  a  preacher  had  noth 
ing  else  to  do  than  to  listen  to  the  recital  of 
their  ailments.  He  had  to  pray  with  poor 
and  stricken  families  whose  conditions  re 
minded  him  strongly  of  what  his  own  must 
have  been.  He  had  to  speak  words  of 


176     The  Uncalled 

serious  admonition  to  girls  nearly  his  own 
age,  who  thought  it  great  fun  and  giggled 
in  his  face.  All  this  must  he  do,  nor  must 
he  slight  a  single  convention.  No  rules  of 
conduct  are  so  rigid  as  are  those  of  a  pro 
vincial  town.  He  who  ministers  to  the 
people  must  learn  their  prejudices  and  be 
adroit  enough  not  to  offend  them  or  "strong 
enough  to  break  them.  down.  It  was  a 
great  load  to  lay  on  the  shoulders  of  so 
young  a  man.  But  habit  is  everything,  and 
he  soon  fell  into  the  ways  of  his  office. 
Writing  to  Taylor,  he  said,  "  I  am  fairly 
harnessed  now,  and  at  work,  and,  although 
the  pulling  is  somewhat  hard,  I  know  my 
way.  It  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  man  falls 
into  the  cant  of  his  position  and  learns  to 
dole  out  the  cut-and-dried  phrases  of  minis 
terial  talk  like  a  sort  of  spiritual  phonograph. 
I  must  confess,  though,  that  I  am  rather 
good  friends  with  the  children  who  come  to 
my  Sunday-school.  My  own  experiences 
as  a  child  are  so  fresh  in  my  memory  that  I 
rather  sympathise  with  the  little  fellows,  and 
do  all  I  can  to  relieve  the  half-scared  stiff 
ness  with  which  they  conduct  themselves  in 
church  and  the  Sunday-school  room. 

"  I    wonder   why   it   is   we   make    church 


The.  Uncalled      177 

such  a  place  of  terror  to  the  young  ones. 
No  wonder  they  quit  coming  as  soon  as 
they  can  choose. 

"  I  shock  Miss  Simpson,  who  teaches  a 
mixed  class,  terribly,  by  my  freedom  with 
the  pupils.  She  says  that  she  can't  do  any 
thing  with  her  charges  any  more;  but  I 
notice  that  her  class  and  the  school  are 
growing.  I  Ve  been  at  it  for  several  weeks 
now,  and,  like  a  promising  baby,  I  am  be 
ginning  to  take  an  interest  in  things. 

"  If  I  got  on  with  the  old  children  of  my 
flock  as  well  as  I  do  with  the  young  ones,  I 
should  have  nothing  to  complain  of;  but  I 
don't.  They  know  as  little  as  the  young 
sters,  and  are  a  deal  more  unruly.  They 
are  continually  comparing  me  with  their  old 
pastor,  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that  I  suffer 
by  the  comparison.  The  ex-pastor  himself 
burdens  me  with  advice.  I  shall  tell  him 
some  day  that  he  has  resigned.  But  I  am 
growing  diplomatic,  and  have  several  reasons 
for  not  wishing  to  offend  him.  For  all 
which  c  shop  '  pray  forgive  me." 

One  of  the  reasons  for  not  wishing  to 
offend  the  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson  of  which 
Brent  wrote  was,  as  may  be  readily  inferred, 
his  engagement  to  Elizabeth.  It  had  not 


178     The  Uncalled 

yet  officially  become  public  property,  but 
few  of  Dexter' s  observant  and  forecasting 
people  who  saw  them  together  doubted  for 
a  moment  that  it  would  be  a  match.  In 
deed,  some  spiteful  people  in  the  com 
munity,  who  looked  on  from  the  outside, 
said  that  "  Mr.  Simpson  never  thought  of 
resigning  until  he  saw  that  he  could  keep 
the  place  in  the  family."  But  of  course 
they  were  Baptists  who  said  this,  or  Episco 
palians,  or  Presbyterians,  —  some  such  un- 
regenerate  lot. 

Contrary  to  the  adage,  the  course  of  love 
between  the  young  people  did  run  smooth. 
The  young  minister  had  not  disagreed  with 
the  older  one,  so  Elizabeth  had  not  disa 
greed  with  him,  because  she  did  not  have  to 
take  sides.  She  was  active  in  the  Sunday- 
school  and  among  the  young  people's  soci 
eties,  and  Brent  thought  that  she  would 
make  an  ideal  minister's  wife.  Every  Sun 
day,  after  church,  they  walked  home  to 
gether,  and  sometimes  he  would  stop  at  the 
house  for  a  meal.  They  had  agreed  that  at 
the  end  of  his  first  pastoral  year  they  would 
be  married ;  and  both  parent  and  guardian 
smiled  on  the  prospective  union. 

As  his  beloved  young   friend   seemed  to 


The  Uncalled      179 

grow  more  settled  and  contented,  Eliphalet 
Hodges  waxed  more  buoyant  in  the  joy  of 
his  hale  old  age,  and  his  wife,  all  her  ambi 
tions  satisfied,  grew  more  primly  genial  every 
day. 

Brent  found  his  congregation  increasing, 
and  heard  himself  spoken  of  as  a  popular 
preacher.  Under  these  circumstances,  it 
would  seem  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
desired  to  make  him  happy.  But  he  was 
not  so,  though  he  kept  an  unruffled  coun 
tenance.  He  felt  the  repression  that  his 
position  put  upon  him.  He  prayed  that 
with  time  it  might  pass  off,  but  this  prayer 
was  not  answered.  There  were  times  when, 
within  his  secret  closet,  the  contemplation  of 
the  dead  level  of  his  life,  as  it  spread  out 
before  him,  drove  him  almost  to  madness. 

The  bitterness  in  his  heart  against  his 
father  had  not  abated  one  jot,  and  whenever 
these  spasms  of  discontent  would  seize  him 
he  was  wont  to  tell  himself,  "  I  am  fighting 
old  Tom  Brent  now,  and  I  must  conquer 
him." 

Thus  nearly  a  year  passed  away,  and  he 
was  beginning  to  think  of  asking  Elizabeth 
to  name  the  day.  He  had  his  eye  upon  a 
pretty  little  nest  of  a  house,  sufficiently 


180     The  Uncalled 

remote  from  her  father's,  and  he  was  look 
ing  forward  to  settling  quietly  down  in  a 
home  of  his  own. 

It  was  about  this  time  that,  as  he  sat  alone 
one  evening  in  the  little  chamber  which  was 
his  study  and  bedroom  in  one,  Mr.  Simpson 
entered  and  opened  conversation  with  him. 

For  some  time  a  rumour  which  did  vio 
lence  to  the  good  name  of  Sophy  Davis  had 
been  filtering  through  the  community.  But 
it  had  only  filtered,  until  the  girl's  disap 
pearance  a  day  or  two  before  had  allowed 
the  gossips  to  talk  openly,  and  great  was 
the  talk.  The  young  minister  had  looked 
on  and  listened  in  silence.  He  had  always 
known  and  liked  Sophy,  and  if  what  the 
gossips  said  of  her  was  true,  he  pitied  the  girl. 

On  this  particular  evening  it  was  plain 
that  Mr.  Simpson  had  come  to  talk  about 
the  affair.  After  some  preliminary  remarks, 
he  said,  "  You  have  a  great  chance,  dear 
Brother  Brent,  for  giving  the  devil  in  this 
particular  part  of  the  moral  vineyard  a  hard 
blow." 

"  I  don't  clearly  see  why  now,  more  than 
before,"  returned  Brent. 

"  Because  you  are  furnished  with  a  living 
example  of  the  fruits  of  evil :  don't  you  see  ?  " 


The  Uncalled      181 

"  If  there  is  such  an  example  furnished, 
the  people  will  see  it  for  themselves,  and  I 
should  be  doing  a  thankless  task  to  point 
it  out  to  them.  I  would  rather  show 
people  the  beauty  of  good  than  the  ugliness 
of  evil." 

"  Yes,  that 's  the  milk-and-water  new  style 
of  preaching." 

"  Well,  we  all  have  our  opinions,  to  be 
sure,  but  I  think  it  rather  a  good  style." 
Brent  was  provokingly  nonchalant,  and  his 
attitude  irritated  the  elder  man. 

"  We  won't  discuss  that :  we  will  be  practi 
cal.  I  came  to  advise  you  to  hold  Sophy 
Davis  up  in  church  next  Sunday  as  a  fearful 
example  of  evil-doing.  You  need  n't  men 
tion  any  names,  but  you  can  make  it  strong 
and  plain  enough." 

Brent  flushed  angrily.  "Are  there  not 
enough  texts  in  here,"  he  asked,  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  Bible,  "  that  I  can  cite  and 
apply,  without  holding  up  a  poor  weak  mor 
tal  to  the  curiosity,  scorn,  and  derision  of 
her  equally  weak  fellows  ? " 

"  But  it  is  your  duty  as  a  Christian  and  a 
preacher  of  the  gospel  to  use  this  warning." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  kick  a  falling  girl  to 
find  examples  to  warn  people  from  sin  ;  and 


1 82    The  Uncalled 

as  for  duty,  I  think  that  each  man  best 
knows  his  own." 

"  Then  you  are  n't  going  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  young  man  burst  forth,  "  I 
am  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  not  a  clerical 
gossip  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  a  gossip  ? " 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  you." 

"  Let  me  preach  for  you,  Sunday." 

"  I  will  not  do  that  either.  I  will  not  let 
my  pulpit  be  debased  by  anything  which  I 
consider  so  low  as  this  business." 

"You  will  not  take  advice,  then?  " 

"  Not  such  as  that." 

"  Be  careful,  Frederick  Brent.  I  gave  you 
that  pulpit,  and  I  can  take  it  away,  — I  that 
know  who  you  are  and  what  you  come  from." 

"  The  whole  town  knows  what  you  know, 
so  I  do  not  care  for  that.  As  for  taking 
my  pulpit  from  me,  you  may  do  that  when 
you  please.  You  put  it  upon  me  by  force, 
and  by  force  you  may  take  it ;  but  while  I  am 
pastor  there  I  shall  use  my  discretion  in  all 
matters  of  this  kind." 

"  Sophy  's  been  mighty  quiet  in  her  devil 
ment.  She  does  n't  accuse  anybody.  Maybe 
you  Ve  got  more  than  one  reason  for  shield 
ing  her." 


The  Uncalled     183 

Brent  looked  into  the  man's  eyes  and  read 
his  meaning ;  then  he  arose  abruptly  and 
opened  the  door. 

"  I  'm  not  accusing  —  " 

"  Go,"  said  the  young  man  hoarsely.  His 
face  was  white,  and  his  teeth  were  hard  set. 

"  You  '11  learn  some  respect  for  your  elders 
yet,  if  —  " 

"  Go !  "  Brent  repeated,  and  he  took  a 
step  towards  his  visitor.  Mr.  Simpson 
looked  startled  for  a  moment,  but  he  glanced 
back  into  the  young  man's  face  and  then 
passed  hurriedly  out  of  the  room. 

Brent  let  two  words  slip  between  his 
clenched  teeth  :  "  The  hound  !" 

No  one  knew  what  had  passed  between 
the  young  pastor  and  Mr.  Simpson,  but 
many  mutterings  and  head-shakings  of  the 
latter  indicated  that  all  was  not  right.  No 
one  knew  ?  Perhaps  that  is  hardly  correct, 
for  on  Sunday,  the  sermon  over,  when  Brent 
looked  to  find  Elizabeth  in  her  usual  place 
whence  they  walked  home  together,  she  was 
gone.  He  bit  his  lip  and  passed  on  alone, 
but  it  rankled  within  him  that  she  had  so 
easily  believed  ill  of  him. 

But  he  had  not  seen  the  last  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Simpson's  work.  It  was  the  right  of  five 


184     The  Uncalled 

members  of  the  congregation  to  call  a  church- 
meeting,  and  when  he  returned  for  service 
in  the  evening  he  found  upon  the  pulpit  the 
written  request  for  such  an  assembly  to  be 
held  on  Tuesday  night.  Heading  the  list 
of  members  was  the  name  of  the  former  pas 
tor,  although  this  was  not  needed  to  tell  the 
young  man  that  it  was  his  work.  In  anger 
he  gave  out  the  notice  and  went  on  with  his 
duties. 

"  Somethin'  must  Y  riled  you  to-night, 
Fred,"  said  Eliphalet  when  church  was  out. 
"You  give  'em  a  mighty  stirrin'  touch  o' 
fire.  It  'minded  me  o'  that  old  supply  ser 
mon."  Brent  smiled  mirthlessly.  He  knew 
that  the  same  feelings  had  inspired  both 
efforts. 

On  Tuesday  evening  he  was  early  at 
church,  and  in  the  chair,  as  was  the  pastor's 
place.  Early  as  he  was,  he  did  not  much 
precede  Mr.  Simpson,  who  came  in,  followed 
by  a  coterie  of  his  choicest  spirits. 

When  the  assembly  had  been  duly  called 
to  order,  Brent  asked,  "  Will  some  one  now 
please  state  the  object  of  this  meeting  ?  " 

Mr.  Simpson  arose. 

"  Brothers  and  sisters,"  he  said,  "  the  ob 
ject  of  this  meeting  is  a  very  simple  one. 


The  Uncalled      185 

From  the  time  that  I  began  to  preach  in  this 
church,  twenty-five  years  ago,  we  had  purity 
and  cleanness  in  the  pulpit  and  in  the  pew." 

Brent's  eyes  were  flashing.  Eliphalet 
Hodges,  who  had  thought  that  the  extra 
session  was  for  some  routine  business, 
pricked  up  his  ears. 

Simpson  proceeded :  "  One  in  this  flock 
has  lately  gone  astray  :  she  has  fallen  into 
evil  ways  —  " 

"  Brother  Simpson,"  interrupted  Brent, 
his  face  drawn  and  hard  with  anger,  "  will 
you  state  the  object  of  this  meeting  ? 

"  If  the  pastor  is  not  afraid  to  wait,  he  will 
see  that  that  is  what  I  am  doing." 

"  Then  you  are  bringing  into  the  church 
matters  that  have  no  business  here." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that.  We  intend  to 
investigate  and  see  why  you  refused  to  hold 
up  as  a  warning  one  of  the  sinners  of  this 
connection.  We  propose  to  ask  whom  you 
were  shielding  —  a  sinner  in  the  pew,  or  a 
sinner  in  the  pulpit  as  well.  We  propose  — " 

"  Stop  !  "  The  young  man's  voice  broke 
out  like  the  report  of  a  rifle.  "  Stop  ,  I  say, 
or,  as  God  sees  me,  here  in  His  temple,  at 
His  very  altar,  I  will  do  you  violence.  I 
speak  to  you  not  as  your  pastor,  but  as  a 


1 86      The  Uncalled 

man :  not  as  an  accused  man,  for  you  dare 
not  accuse  me." 

The  church  was  in  a  commotion.  In  all 
its  long  history,  such  a  scene  had  never  be 
fore  been  enacted  within  the  sacred  walls. 
The  men  sat  speechless  ;  the  women  shrank 
far  down  into  their  seats.  Only  those  two 
men,  the  young  and  the  old,  stood  glaring 
into  each  other's  faces. 

"  Remember,  brethren,"  said  someone, 
recovering  himself,  "  that  this  is  the  house 
of  God,  and  that  you  are  preachers  of  the 
gospel." 

"  I  do  remember  that  it  is  God's  house, 
and  for  that  reason  I  will  not  let  it  be  dis 
graced  by  scandal  that  would  stain  the  low 
est  abode  of  vice.  I  do  remember  that  I  am 
a  preacher,  and  for  that  reason  I  will  not  see 
the  gospel  made  vindictive,  —  a  scourge  to 
whip  down  a  poor  girl,  who  may  have  sinned, 
—  I  know  not,  —  but  who,  if  she  did,  has  an 
advocate  with  God.  Once  before  in  this 
place  have  I  told  you  my  opinion  of  your 
charity  and  your  love.  Once  before  have  I 
branded  you  as  mockeries  of  the  idea  of 
Christianity.  Now  I  say  to  you,  you  are 
hypocrites.  You  are  like  carrion  birds  who 
soar  high  up  in  the  ether  for  a  while  and  then 


The   Uncalled     187 

swoop  down  to  revel  in  filth  and  rottenness. 
The  stench  of  death  is  sweet  to  you.  Pu 
tridity  is  dear  to  you.  As  for  you  who  have 
done  this  work,  you  need  pity.  Your  own 
soul  must  be  reeking  with  secret  foulness 
to  be  so  basely  suspicious.  Your  own  eyes 
must  have  cast  unholy  glances  to  so  soon 
accuse  the  eyes  of  others.  As  for  the  thing 
which  you,  mine  enemy,  have  intimated  here 
to-night,  as  pastor  of  this  church  I  scorn  to 
make  defence.  But  as  a  man  I  say,  give 
such  words  as  those  breath  again,  and  I  will 
forget  your  age  and  only  remember  your  in 
famy.  I  see  the  heads  of  some  about  me 
here  wagging,  some  that  knew  my  father.  I 
hear  their  muffled  whispers,  and  I  know  what 
they  are  saying.  I  know  what  is  in  their 
hearts.  You  are  saying  that  it  is  the  old  Tom 
Brent  in  me  showing  itself  at  last.  Yes, 
it  has  smouldered  in  me  long,  and  I  am  glad. 
I  think  better  of  that  spirit  because  it  was 
waked  into  life  to  resent  meanness.  I  would 
rather  be  the  most  roistering  drunkard  that 
ever  reeled  down  these  streets  than  call  my 
self  a  Christian  and  carouse  over  the  dead 
characters  of  my  fellows. 

"  To-night  I  feel  for  the  first  time  that  I 
am  myself.     I  give  you  back  gladly  what  you 


1 88     The  Uncalled 

have  given  me.  I  am  no  longer  your  pastor. 
We  are  well  quit.  Even  while  I  have 
preached  to  you,  I  have  seen  in  your  hearts 
your  scorn  and  your  distrust,  and  I  have 
hated  you  in  secret.  But  I  throw  off  the 
cloak.  I  remove  the  disguise.  Here  I  stand 
stripped  of  everything  save  the  fact  that  I  am 
a  man  ;  and  I  despise  you  openly.  Yes,  old 
Tom,  drunken  Tom  Brent's  son  despises 
you.  Go  home.  Go  home.  There  may 
be  work  for  your  stench-loving  nostrils 
there." 

He  stood  like  an  avenging  spirit,  pointing 
towards  the  door,  and  the  people  who  had  sat 
there  breathless  through  it  all  rose  quietly 
and  slipped  out.  Simpson  joined  them  and 
melted  into  the  crowd.  They  were  awed 
and  hushed. 

Only  Mrs.  Hodges,  white  as  death,  and 
her  husband,  bowed  with  grief,  remained. 
A  silent  party,  they  walked  home  together. 
Not  until  they  were  in  the  house  did  the 
woman  break  down,  and  then  she  burst  into 
a  storm  of  passionate  weeping  as  if  the  pent- 
up  tears  of  all  her  stoical  life  were  flowing  at 
once. 

"  Oh,  Fred,  Fred,"  she  cried  between  her 
sobs,  "  I  see  it  all  now.  I  was  wrong.  I 


The  Uncalled      189 

was  wrong.  But  I  did  it  all  fur  the  best. 
The  Lord  knows  I  did  it  fur  the  best." 

"  I  know  you  did.  Aunt  Hester,  but  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  sooner,  before  the 
bitterness  of  death  had  come  into  my  life." 
He  felt  strangely  hard  and  cold.  Her  grief 
did  not  affect  him  then. 

"  Don't  take  on  so,  Hester,"  said  the  old 
man,  but  the  woman  continued  to  rock  her 
self  to  and  fro  and  moan,  "  I  did  it  fur  the 
best,  I  did  it  fur  the  best."  The  old  man 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  after  a  while  she 
grew  more  calm,  only  her  sobs  breaking  the 
silence. 

"  I  shall  go  away  to-morrow,"  said  Brent. 
"  I  am  going  out  into  the  world  for  myself. 
I  've  been  a  disgrace  to  every  one  connected 
with  me." 

"  Don't  say  that  about  yoreself,  Fred  ;  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  hear  it,"  said  Eliphalet. 
"  You  Ve  jest  acted  as  any  right-thinkin' 
man  would  'a'  acted.  It  would  n't  'a'  been 
right  fur  you  to  'a'  struck  Brother  Simpson, 
but  I  'm  nearer  his  age,  an*  my  hands  itched 
to  git  a  hold  o'  him."  The  old  man  looked 
menacing,  and  his  fist  involuntarily  clenched. 

"'Liphalet,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  've  been  a- 
meddlin'  with  the  business  o'  Providence, 


190     The  Uncalled 

an'  I  Ve  got  my  jest  deserts.  I  thought  I 
knowed  jest  what  He  wanted  me  to  do,  an* 
I  was  more  ignorant  than  a  child.  Furgive 
me  ef  you  kin,  Fred,  my  boy.  I  was  tryin' 
to  make  a  good  man  o'  you." 

"  There 's  nothing  for  me  to  forgive, 
Aunt  Hester.  I  'm  sorry  I  Ve  spoiled  your 
plans." 

"  I  'm  glad,  fur  mebbe  God  '11  have  a 
chance  now  to  work  His  own  plans.  But 
pore  little  'Lizabeth  !" 

Brent's  heart  hurt  him  as  he  heard  the 
familiar  name,  and  he  turned  abruptly  and 
went  to  his  room.  Once  there,  he  had  it 
out  with  himself.  "  But,"  he  told  himself, 
"  if  I  had  the  emergency  to  meet  again,  I 
should  do  the  same  thing." 

The  next  morning's  mail  brought  him  a 
little  packet  in  which  lay  the  ring  he  had 
given  Elizabeth  to  plight  their  troth. 

"  I  thank  you  for  this,"  he  said.  "  It 
makes  my  way  easier." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

story  of  the  altercation  between  the 
A  young  minister  and  a  part  of  his  con 
gregation  was  well  bruited  about  the  town,  and 
all  united  in  placing  the  fault  heavily  on  the 
young  man's  shoulders.  As  for  him,  he  did 
not  care.  He  was  wild  with  the  enjoyment 
of  his  new-found  freedom.  Only  now  and 
again,  as  he  sat  at  the  table  the  morning 
after,  and  looked  into  the  sad  faces  of  Eliph- 
alet  and  his  guardian,  did  he  feel  any  sorrow 
at  the  turn  matters  had  taken. 

In  regard  to  Elizabeth,  he  felt  only  relief. 
It  was  as  if  a  half-defined  idea  in  his  mind 
had  been  suddenly  realised.  For  some  time 
he  had  believed  her  unable  either  to  under 
stand  him  or  to  sympathise  with  his  motives. 
He  had  begun  to  doubt  the  depth  of  his  own 
feeling  for  her.  Then  had  come  her  treat 
ment  of  him  last  Sunday,  and  somehow, 
while  he  knew  it  was  at  her  father's  behest, 
he  could  not  help  despising  her  weakness. 


192     The  Uncalled 

He  had  spent  much  of  the  night  before  in 
packing    his   few    effects,   and    all   was   now 
ready  for  his  departure  as  they  sat  at  break 
fast.      Mrs.  Hodges  was  unusually  silent,  and 
her  haggard  face  and  swollen  eyes  told  how 
she  had  passed  the  night.     All  in  a  single 
hour  she  had  seen  the  work  of  the  best  part 
of   her  life   made   as    naught,   and   she   was 
bowed    with    grief    and    defeat.       Frederick 
Brent's  career   had   really  been   her   dream. 
She  had  scarcely  admitted,  even  to  herself, 
how    deeply  his    success  affected    her    own 
happiness.       She  cared    for    him    in    much 
the    same    way    that    a    sculptor   loves    his 
statue.      Her  attitude  was  that  of  one  who 
says,    "  Look    upon    this  work ;    is    it    not 
fair  ?      I  made  it  myself."      It  was  as  much 
her  pride  as  it  was  her  love  that  was  hurt, 
because  her  love  had  been  created    by  her 
pride.       She     had    been    prepared     to    say, 
exultingly,  "  Look  where  he  came  from,  and 
look  where  he  is  ; "   and  now  his  defection 
deprived  her  for  ever  of  that  sweet  privilege. 
People  had  questioned  her  ability  to  train  up 
a  boy  rightly,  and  she  had  wished  to  refute 
their  imputations,  by  making  that  boy   the 
wonder  of  the  community  and  their  spiritual 
leader;    and  just    as  she  had    deemed    her 


The  Uncalled      193 

work  safely  done,  lo,  it  had  come  toppling 
about  her  ears.  Even  if  the  fall  had  come 
sooner,  she  would  have  felt  it  less.  It  was 
the  more  terrible  because  so  unexpected,  for 
she  had  laid  aside  all  her  fears  and  misgivings 
and  felt  secure  in  her  achievement. 

"  You  ain't  a-eatin'  nothin',  Hester,"  said 
her  husband,  anxiously.  <c  I  hope  you  ain't 
a-feelin'  bad  this  mornin'."  He  had  heard 
her  sobbing  all  night  long,  and  the  strength 
and  endurance  of  her  grief  frightened  him 
and  made  him  uneasy,  for  she  had  always 
been  so  stoical.  "  Had  n't  you  better  try 
an'  eat  one  o'  them  buckwheat  cakes?  Put 
lots  o'  butter  an'  molasses  on  it ;  they  're 
mighty  good." 

"  Ef  they  're  so  good,  why  don't  you  eat 
yoreself  ?  You  been  foolin'  with  a  half  a 
one  for  the  last  ten  minutes."  Indeed,  the 
old  man's  food  did  seem  to  stick  in  his  throat, 
and  once  in  a  while  a  mist  would  come  up 
before  his  eyes.  He  too  had  had  his  dreams, 
and  one  of  them  was  of  many  a  happy 
evening  spent  with  his  beloved  boy,  who 
should  be  near  him,  a  joy  and  comfort  in 
the  evening  of  his  life  ;  and  now  he  was 
going  away. 

The  old  man  took  a  deep  gulp  at  his  coffee 


194     The  Uncalled 

to  hide  his  emotion.  It  burned  his  mouth 
and  gave  reason  for  the  moisture  in  his  eye 
when  he  looked  up  at  Fred. 

"  What  train  air  you  goin'  to  take,  Fred  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  think  I  '11  catch  that  eight-fifty  flier. 
It's  the  best  I  can  get,  you  know,  and  vesti- 
buled  through,  too." 

"  You  have  jest  finally  made  up  yore  mind 
to  go,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  could  turn  me  from  it  now, 
Uncle  'Liph." 

"  It  seems  like  a  shame.  You  'ain't  got 
nothin'  to  do  down  in  Cincinnaty." 

"  I  '11  find  something  before  long.  I  am 
going  to  spend  the  first  few  days  just  in 
getting  used  to  being  free."  The  next  mo 
ment  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  said  it,  for  he 
saw  his  guardian's  eyes  fill. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Frederick,"  she  said,  with 
some  return  to  her  old  asperity,  "  I  am  sorry 
that  I  've  made  your  life  so  hard  that  you 
think  that  you  have  been  a  slave.  I  am 
sorry  that  my  home  has  been  so  onpleasant 
that  you  're  so  powerful  glad  to  git  away 
from  it,  even  to  go  into  a  strange  city  full 
of  wickedness  an'  sin." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  it  that  way,  Aunt  Hester. 


The  Uncalled      195 

You  've  been  as  good  as  you  could  be  to  me. 
You  have  done  your  duty  by  me,  if  any  one 
ever  could." 

"  Well,  I  am  mighty  glad  you  realise 
that,  so  's  ef  you  go  away  an'  fall  into  sinful 
ways  you  can't  lay  none  of  it  to  my  bringin'- 
up." 

"  I  feel  somehow  as  if  I  would  like  to  have 
a  go  with  sin  some  time,  to  see  what  it  is 
like." 

"  Well,  I  lay  you  '11  be  satisfied  before 
you  've  been  in  Cincinnaty  long,  for  ef  there 
ever  was  livin*  hells  on  airth,  it's  them  big 
cities." 

"  Oh,  I  have  got  faith  to  believe  that  Fred 
ain't  a-goin'  to  do  nothin'  wrong,"  said 
Eliphalet. 

"  Nobody  don't  know  what  nobody 's 
a-goin'  to  do  under  temptation  sich  as  is  layin' 
in  wait  fur  young  men  in  the  city,  but  I  'm 
shore  I  Ve  done  my  best  to  train  you  right, 
even  ef  I  have  made  some  mistakes  in  my 
poor  weak  way  an'  manner." 

"  If  I  do  fall  into  sinful  ways,  Aunt 
Hester,  I  shall  never  blame  you  or  your 
training  for  it." 

"  But  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  it,  Fred ; 
you  ain't  a-goin'  to  fall  into  no  evil  ways." 


196     The  Uncalled 

"I  don't  know,  Uncle  'Liph.  I  never 
felt  my  weakness  more  than  I  do  now." 

"  Then  that  very  feelin'  will  be  yore 
stren'th,  my  boy.  Keep  on  feelin'  that 
way." 

"  It  '11  not  be  a  strength  in  Cincinnaty,  not 
by  no  means.  There  is  too  many  snares  an' 
pitfalls  there  to  entrap  the  weak,"  Mrs. 
Hodges  insisted. 

It  is  one  of  the  defects  of  the  provincial 
mind  that  it  can  never  see  any  good  in  a  great 
city.  It  concludes  that,  as  many  people  are 
wicked,  where  large  numbers  of  human 
beings  are  gathered  together  there  must  be 
a  much  greater  amount  of  evil  than  in  a 
smaller  place.  It  overlooks  the  equally  ob 
vious  reasoning  that,  as  some  people  are 
good,  in  the  larger  mass  there  must  be  also 
a  larger  amount  of  goodness.  It  seems  a 
source  of  complacent  satisfaction  to  many 
to  sit  in  contemplation  of  the  fact  of  the 
extreme  wickedness  of  the  world.  They  are 
like  children  who  delight  in  a  "  bluggy" 
story,  —  who  gloat  over  murder  and  rapine. 

Brent,  however,  was  in  no  wise  daunted 
by  the  picture  of  evil  which  his  guardian 
painted  for  him,  and  as  soon  as  breakfast 
was  over  he  got  his  things  in  hand  ready  to 


The  Uncalled      197 

start.  Buoyant  as  he  was  with  his  new  free 
dom,  this  was  a  hard  moment  for  him. 
Despite  the  severity  of  his  youthful  treat 
ment  in  Dexter,  the  place  held  all  the  tender 
recollections  he  had,  and  the  room  where  he 
stood  was  the  scene  of  some  memories  that 
now  flooded  his  mind  and  choked  his  utter 
ance  when  he  strove  to  say  good-bye.  He 
had  thought  that  he  should  do  it  with  such 
a  fine  grace.  He  would  prove  such  a  strong 
man.  But  he  found  his  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  as  he  held  his  old  guardian's  hand,  for, 
in  spite  of  all,  she  had  done  the  best  for 
him  that  she  knew,  and  she  had  taken  a  hard, 
uncompromising  pride  in  him. 

"  I  hope  you  '11  git  along  all  right,  Fred 
erick,"  she  faltered  forth  tearfully.  "  Keep 
out  of  bad  company,  an'  let  us  hear  from 
you  whenever  you  can.  The  Lord  knows 
I  Ve  tried  to  do  my  dooty  by  you." 

Poor  Eliphalet  tried  to  say  something  as 
he  shook  the  young  man's  hand,  but  he 
broke  down  and  wept  like  a  child.  The 
boy  could  not  realise  what  a  deal  of  sun 
shine  he  was  taking  out  of  the  old  man's 
life. 

"  I  '11  write  to  you  as  soon  as  I  am  set 
tled,"  he  told  them,  and  with  a  husky  fare- 


198    The  Uncalled 

well  hurried  away  from  the  painful  scene. 
At  the  gate  the  old  couple  stood  and  watched 
him  go  swinging  down  the  street  towards 
the  station.  Then  they  went  into  the  house, 
and  sat  long  in  silence  in  the  room  he  had 
so  lately  left.  The  breakfast-table,  with  all 
that  was  on  it,  was  left  standing  unnoticed 
and  neglected,  a  thing  unprecedented  in 
Mrs.  Hodges'  orderly  household. 

Finally  her  husband  broke  the  silence. 
"  It  'pears  as  if  we  had  jest  buried  some 
one  and  come  home  from  the  funeral." 

"An'  that's  jest  what  we  have  done,  ef 
we  only  knowed  it,  'Liphalet.  We've 
buried  the  last  of  the  Fred  Brent  we  knowed 
an'  raised.  Even  ef  we  ever  see  him  ag'in, 
he  '11  never  be  the  same  to  us.  He  '11  have 
new  friends  to  think  of  an'  new  notions  in 
his  head." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Hester  ;  don't  say  that. 
I  can't  stand  it.  He  is  never  goin'  to  furgit 
you  an'  me,  an'  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  talk 
like  that." 

"  It  don't  soun'  none  too  pleasant  fur  me, 
'Liphalet,  but  I  've  learned  to  face  the  truth, 
an'  that's  the  truth  ef  it  ever  was  told." 

"  Well,  mebbe  it 's  fur  the  best,  then. 
It  '11  draw  us  closer  together  and  make  us 


The   Uncalled     199 

more  to  each  other  as  we  journey  down  to 
the  end.  It 's  our  evenin',  Hester,  an'  we 
must  expect  some  chilly  winds  'long  towards 
night,  but  I  guess  He  knows  best."  He 
reached  over  and  took  his  wife's  hand  ten 
derly  in  his,  and  so  they  sat  on  sadly,  but 
gathering  peace  in  the  silence  and  the  sym 
pathy,  until  far  into  the  morning. 

Meanwhile  the  eight-fifty  "  flier "  was 
speeding  through  the  beautiful  Ohio  Valley, 
bearing  the  young  minister  away  from  the 
town  of  his  birth.  Out  of  sight  of  the  grief 
of  his  friends,  he  had  regained  all  his  usual 
stolid  self-possession,  though  his  mind  often 
went  back  to  the  little  cottage  at  Dexter 
where  the  two  old  people  sat,  and  he  may  be 
forgiven  if  his  memory  lingered  longer  over 
the  image  of  the  man  than  of  the  woman.  He 
remembered  with  a  thrill  at  his  heart  what 
Eliphalet  Hodges  had  been  to  him  in  the 
dark  days  of  his  youth,  and  he  confessed  to 
himself  with  a  half  shame  that  his  greatest 
regret  was  in  leaving  him. 

The  feeling  with  which  he  had  bidden  his 
guardian  good-bye  was  one  not  of  regret  at 
his  own  loss,  but  of  pity  for  her  distress. 
To  Elizabeth  his  mind  only  turned  for  a 
moment  to  dismiss  her  with  a  mild  con- 


200     The  Uncalled 

tempt.  Something  hard  that  had  always 
been  in  his  nature  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
manifested  itself. 

"  It  is  so  much  better  this  way/'  he  said, 
"  for  if  the  awakening  had  come  later  we 
should  have  been  miserable  together.''  And 
then  his  thoughts  went  forward  to  the  new 
scenes  towards  which  he  was  speeding. 

He  had  never  been  to  Cincinnati.  In 
deed,  except  on  picnic  days,  he  had  scarcely 
ever  been  outside  of  Dexter.  But  Cincin 
nati  was  the  great  city  of  his  State,  the  one 
towards  which  adventurous  youth  turned  its 
steps  when  real  life  was  to  be  begun.  He 
dreaded  and  yet  longed  to  be  there,  and  his 
heart  was  in  a  turmoil  of  conflicting  emotion 
as  he  watched  the  landscape  flit  by. 

It  was  a  clear  August  day.  Nature  was 
trembling  and  fainting  in  the  ecstasies  of  sen 
suous  heat.  Beside  the  railway  the  trenches 
which  in  spring  were  gurgling  brooks  were 
now  dry  and  brown,  and  the  reeds  which 
had  bent  forward  to  kiss  the  water  now 
leaned  over  from  very  weakness,  dusty  and 
sickly.  The  fields  were  ripening  to  the  har 
vest.  There  was  in  the  air  the  smell  of 
fresh-cut  hay.  The  corn-stalks  stood  like 
a  host  armed  with  brazen  swords  to  resist 


The  Uncalled     201 

the  onslaught  of  that  other  force  whose 
weapon  was  the  corn-knife.  Farther  on, 
between  the  trees,  the  much  depleted  river 
sparkled  in  the  sun  and  wound  its  way,  now 
near,  now  away  from  the  road,  a  glittering, 
dragon  in  an  enchanted  wood. 

Such  scenes  as  these  occupied  the  young 
man's  mind,  until,  amid  the  shouts  of  brake- 
men  the  vociferous  solicitations  of  the  bag 
gage-man,  and  a  general  air  of  bustle  and 
preparation,  the  train  thundered  into  the 
Grand  Central  Station.  Something  seized 
Brent's  heart  like  a  great  compressing  hand. 
He  was  frightened  for  an  instant,  and  then 
he  was  whirled  out  with  the  rest  of  the 
crowd,  up  the  platform,  through  the  thronged 
waiting-room,  into  the  street. 

Then  the  cries  of  the  eager  men  outside 
of  "Cab,  sir?  cab,  sir?"  "Let  me  take 
your  baggage,"  and  "  Which  way,  sir  ? " 
bewildered  him.  He  did  the  thing  which 
every  provincial  does  :  he  went  to  a  police 
man  and  inquired  of  him  where  he  might 
find  a  respectable  boarding-house.  The 
policeman  did  not  know,  but  informed  him 
that  there  were  plenty  of  hotels  farther  up. 
With  something  like  disgust,  Brent  won 
dered  if  all  the  hotels  were  like  those  he 


2O2,      The  Uncalled 

saw  at  the  station,  where  the  guests  had  to 
go  through  the  bar-room  to  reach  their 
chambers.  He  shuddered  at  it ;  so  strong  is 
the  influence  of  habit.  But  he  did  not  wish 
to  go  to  a  hotel :  so,  carrying  his  two  valises, 
he  trudged  on,  though  the  hot  sun  of  the 
mid-afternoon  beat  mercilessly  down  upon 
him.  He  kept  looking  into  the  faces  of 
people  who  passed  him,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  see  in  one  encouragement  to  ask  for 
the  information  he  so  much  wanted ;  but 
one  and  all  they  hurried  by  without  even  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  dusty  traveller. 
Had  one  of  them  looked  at  him,  he  would 
merely  have  said,  mentally,  "  Some  country 
bumpkin  come  in  to  see  the  sights  of  town 
and  be  buncoed." 

There  is  no  loneliness  like  the  loneliness 
of  the  unknown  man  in  a  crowd.  A  feeling 
of  desolation  took  hold  upon  Brent,  so  he 
turned  down  a  side-street  in  order  to  be 
more  out  of  the  main  line  of  business.  It 
was  a  fairly  respectable  quarter  ;  children  were 
playing  about  the  pavements  and  in  the 
gutters,  while  others  with  pails  and  pitchers 
were  going  to  and  from  the  corner  saloon, 
where  their  vessels  were  filled  with  foaming 
beer.  Brent  wondered  at  the  cruelty  of 


The  Uncalled      203 

parents  who  thus  put  their  children  in  the 
way  of  temptation,  and  looked  to  see  if  the 
little  ones  were  not  bowed  with  shame  ;  but 
they  all  strode  stolidly  on,  with  what  he 
deemed  an  unaccountable  indifference  to 
their  own  degradation.  He  passed  one 
place  where  the  people  were  drinking  in  the 
front  yard,  and  saw  a  mother  holding  a 
glass  of  beer  to  her  little  one's  lips.  He 
could  now  understand  the  attitude  of  the 
children,  but  the  fact,  nevertheless,  surprised 
and  sickened  him. 

Finally,  the  sign  "  Boarding  Here " 
caught  his  eye.  He  went  into  the  yard  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  A  plump  German 
girl  opened  it,  and,  to  his  question  as  to  ac 
commodation,  replied  that  she  would  see  her 
mistress.  He  was  ushered  into  a  little  par 
lour  that  boasted  some  shabby  attempts  at 
finery,  and  was  soon  joined  by  a  woman 
whom  he  took  to  be  the  "  lady  of  the 
house." 

Yes,  Mrs.  Jones  took  boarders.  Would 
he  want  room  and  board  ?  Terms  five  dol 
lars  per  week.  Had  he  work  in  the  city  ? 
No  ?  Well,  from  gentlemen  who  were  out 
of  work  she  always  had  her  money  in  ad 
vance.  But  would  he  see  his  room  first? 


204    The  Uncalled 

Wondering  much  at  Mrs.  Jones's  strange 
business  arrangement,  Brent  allowed  her  to 
conduct  him  to  a  room  on  the  second  floor, 
which  looked  out  on  the  noisy  street.  It 
was  not  a  palatial  place  by  any  means,  but 
was  not  uncomfortable  save  for  the  heat, 
which  might  be  expected  anywhere  on  such 
a  day.  He  was  tired  and  wanted  rest,  so  he 
engaged  the  place  and  paid  the  woman  then 
and  there. 

"  You  just  come  off  the  train,  I  see.  Will 
you  have  luncheon  at  once,  Mr.  —  ?  " 

"  Brent,"  said  he.  "  Yes,  I  will  have 
some  luncheon,  if  you  please." 

"  Do  you  take  beer  with  your  luncheon  P  " 

"  No-o,"  he  said,  hesitating;  and  yet  why 
should  he  not  take  beer  ?  Everybody  else 
did,  even  the  children.  Then  he  blushed 
as  he  thought  of  what  his  aunt  Hester  would 
think  of  his  even  hesitating  over  the  ques 
tion.  She  would  have  shot  out  a  "  no  "  as 
if  it  were  an  insult  to  be  asked.  So  without 
beer  he  ate  his  luncheon  and  lay  down  to 
rest  for  the  afternoon.  When  one  has  trav 
elled  little,  even  a  short  journey  is  fatiguing. 

In  the  evening  Brent  met  some  of  the 
other  boarders  at  supper;  there  were  not 
many.  They  were  principally  clerks  in  shops 


The  Uncalled      205 

or  under-bookkeepers.  One  genial  young 
fellow  struck  up  a  conversation  with  Fred, 
and  became  quite  friendly  during  the  evening. 

"  I  guess  you  will  go  out  to  the  c  Zoo '  to 
morrow,  won't  you  ?  That  is  about  the  first 
place  that  visitors  usually  strike  for  when 
they  come  here." 

"  I  thought  of  getting  a  general  idea  of  the 
city  first,  so  that  I  could  go  round  better 
before  going  farther  out." 

"  Oh,  you  won't  have  any  trouble  in  get 
ting  around.  Just  ask  folks,  and  they  will 
direct  you  anywhere." 

"  But  everybody  seems  to  be  in  a  hurry ; 
and  by  the  time  I  open  my  mouth  to  ask 
them,  they  have  passed  me." 

The  young  clerk,  Mr.  Perkins  by  name, 
thought  this  was  a  great  joke  and  laughed 
long  and  loudly  at  it. 

"  I  wish  to  gracious  I  could  go  around 
with  you.  I  have  been  so  busy  ever  since  I 
have  been  here  that  I  have  never  seen  any  of 
the  show  sights  myself.  But  I  tell  you  what 
I  will  do :  I  can  steer  you  around  some  on 
Thursday  night.  That  is  my  night  off,  and 
then  I  will  show  you  some  sights  that  are 
sights."  The  young  man  chuckled  as  he 
got  his  hat  and  prepared  to  return  to  the 


206      The  Uncalled 

shop.  Brent  thanked  him  in  a  way  that 
sounded  heavy  and  stilted  even  to  his  own 
ears  after  the  other's  light  pleasantry. 

"  And  another  thing,"  said  Perkins,  "  we 
will  go  to  see  the  baseball  game  on  Sunday, 
Clevelands  and  the  Reds,  —  great  game,  you 
know."  It  was  well  that  Mr.  Perkins  was 
half-way  out  of  the  door  before  he  finished 
his  sentence,  for  there  was  no  telling  what 
effect  upon  him  the  flush  which  mounted  to 
Brent's  face  and  the  horror  in  his  eyes  would 
have  had. 

Go  to  a  baseball  game  on  Sunday  !  What 
would  his  people  think  of  such  a  thing  ? 
How  would  he  himself  feel  there,  —  he,  not 
withstanding  his  renunciation  of  office,  a 
minister  of  the  gospel  ?  He  hastened  to  his 
room,  where  he  could  be  alone  and  think. 
The  city  indeed  was  full  of  temptations  to 
the  young  !  And  yet  he  knew  he  would  be 
ashamed  to  tell  his  convictions  to  Perkins, 
or  to  explain  his  horror  at  the  proposition. 
Again  there  came  to  him,  as  there  had  come 
many  times  before,  the  realisation  that  he 
was  out  of  accord  with  his  fellows.  He  was 
not  in  step  with  the  procession.  He  had 
been  warped  away  from  the  parallel  of  every 
day,  ordinary  humanity.  In  order  to  still 


The  Uncalled      207 

the  tumult  in  his  breast3  he  took  his  hat  and 
wandered  out  upon  the  street.  He  wanted 
to  see  people,  to  come  into  contact  with  them 
and  so  rub  off  some  of  the  strangeness  in 
which  their  characters  appeared  to  him. 

The  streets  were  all  alight  and  alive  with 
bustle.  Here  a  fakir  with  loud  voice  and 
market-place  eloquence  was  vending  his 
shoddy  wares ;  there  a  drunkard  reeled  or 
was  kicked  from  the  door  of  a  saloon,  whose 
noiselessly  swinging  portals  closed  for  an  in 
stant  only  to  be  reopened  to  admit  another 
victim,  who  ere  long  would  be  treated  like 
wise.  A  quartet  of  young  negroes  were 
singing  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  a  house 
as  he  passed  and  catching  the  few  pennies 
and  nickels  that  were  flung  to  them  from  the 
door.  A  young  girl  smiled  and  beckoned  to 
him  from  a  window,  and  another  who  passed 
laughed  saucily  up  into  his  face  and  cried, 
"  Ah,  there  !  "  Everywhere  was  the  inevi 
table  pail  flashing  to  and  fro.  Sickened,  dis 
gusted,  thrown  back  upon  himself,  Brent 
turned  his  steps  homeward  again.  Was  this 
the  humanity  he  wanted  to  know?  Was 
this  the  evil  which  he  wanted  to  have  a  go 
with  ?  Was  Aunt  Hester,  after  all,  in  the 
right,  and  was  her  way  the  best  ?  His  heart 


2o8     The  Uncalled 

was  torn  by  a  multitude  of  conflicting  emo 
tions.  He  had  wondered,  in  one  of  his  re 
bellious  moods,  if,  when  he  was  perfectly 
untrammelled,  he  would  ever  pray  ;  but  on 
this  night  of  nights,  before  he  went  wearily 
to  bed,  he  remained  long  upon  his  knees. 


CHAPTER   XV 

BRENT  found  himself  in  a  most  pecu 
liar  situation.  He  had  hated  the 
severe  discipline  of  his  youth,  and  had  finally 
rebelled  against  it  and  renounced  its  results 
as  far  as  they  went  materially.  This  he  had 
thought  to  mean  his  emancipation.  But 
when  the  hour  to  assert  his  freedom  had 
come,  he  found  that  the  long  years  of  rigid 
training  had  bound  his  volition  with  iron 
bands.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of 
habit  which  he  was  ashamed  to  display  and 
yet  could  not  shake  off.  The  pendulum 
never  stops  its  swing  in  the  middle  of  the 
arc.  So  he  would  have  gone  to  the  other 
extreme  and  revelled  in  the  pleasures  whose 
very  breath  had  been  forbidden  to  his 
youth ;  but  he  found  his  sensibilities  re 
volting  from  everything  that  did  not  accord 
with  the  old  Puritan  code  by  which  they 
had  been  trained.  He  knew  himself  to  be 
full  of  capabilities  for  evil,  but  it  seemed  as 
if  some  power  greater  than  his  held  him 


210     The  Uncalled 

back.  It  was  Frederick  Brent  who  looked 
on  sin  abstractly,  but  its  presence  in  the 
concrete  was  seen  through  the  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Hester  Hodges.  It  could  hardly  be  called 
the  decree  of  conscience,  because  so  instan 
taneous  was  the  rejection  of  evil  that  there 
was  really  no  time  for  reference  to  the  in 
ternal  monitor.  The  very  restriction  which 
he  had  complained  of  he  was  now  putting 
upon  himself.  The  very  yoke  whose  bur 
den  he  hated  he  was  placing  about  his  own 
neck.  He  had  run  away  from  the  sound 
of  "right"  and  "duty,"  but  had  not  es 
caped  their  power.  He  felt  galled,  humili 
ated,  and  angry  with  himself,  because  he 
had  long  seen  the  futility  of  blind  indigna 
tion  against  the  unseen  force  which  impelled 
him  forward  in  a  hated  path. 

One  thing  that  distressed  him  was  a 
haunting  fear  of  the  sights  which  Perkins 
would  show  him  on  the  morrow's  night. 
He  had  seen  enough  for  himself  to  conjec 
ture  of  what  nature  they  would  be.  He 
did  not  want  to  see  more,  and  yet  how 
could  he  avoid  it?  He  might  plead  illness, 
but  that  would  be  a  lie ;  and  then  there 
would  be  other  nights  to  follow,  so  it  would 
only  be  a  postponement  of  what  must  ulti- 


The  Uncalled     211 

mately  take  place  or  be  boldly  rejected. 
Once  he  decided  to  explain  his  feelings  on 
the  subject,  but  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw 
the  half-pitying  sneer  on  the  face  of  the 
worldly  young  cityite,  and  he  quailed  be 
fore  it. 

Why  not  go  ?  Could  what  he  saw  hurt 
him  ?  Was  he  so  great  a  coward  that  he 
dared  not  come  into  the  way  of  temptation  ? 
We  do  not  know  the  strength  of  a  shield 
until  it  has  been  tried  in  battle.  Metal 
does  not  ring  true  or  false  until  it  is  struck. 
He  would  go.  He  would  see  with  his  own 
eyes  for  the  purpose  of  information.  He 
would  have  his  boasted  bout  with  sin.  Af 
ter  this  highly  valorous  conclusion  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  next  morning  found  him  wavering 
again,  but  he  put  all  his  troubled  thoughts 
away  and  spent  the  day  in  sight-seeing. 
He  came  in  at  night  tired  and  feeling  strange 
and  lonesome.  "  Whom  the  gods  wish  to 
destroy,  they  first  make  mad,"  we  used  to 
say ;  but  all  that  is  changed  now,  and  whom 
the  devil  wishes  to  get,  he  first  makes  lone 
some.  Then  the  victim  is  up  to  anything. 

Brent  had  finished  his  supper  when  Per 
kins  came  in,  but  he  brightened  at  the 


212     The  Uncalled 

young  clerk's  cheery  salute,  "  Hello,  there  ! 
ready  to  go,  are  you  ? " 

"  Been  ready  all  day,"  he  replied,  with  a 
laugh.  "It's  been  pretty  slow." 

"  'Ain't  made  much  .out,  then,  seeing  the 
sights  of  this  little  village  of  ours  ?  Well, 
we  '11  do  better  to-night,  if  the  people  don't 
see  that  black  tie  of  yours  and  take  you  for 
a  preacher  getting  facts  for  a  crusade." 

Brent  blushed  and  bit  his  lip,  but  he  only 
said,  "I  '11  go  up  and  change  it  while  you  're 
finishing  your  supper." 

"  Guess  you  'd  better,  or  some  one  will  be 
asking  you  for  a  sermon."  Perkins  laughed 
good-naturedly,  but  he  did  not  know  how  his 
words  went  home  to  his  companion's  sen 
sitive  feelings.  He  thought  that  his  haste 
in  leaving  the  room  and  his  evident  confu 
sion  were  only  the  evidence  of  a  greenhorn's 
embarrassment  under  raillery.  He  really 
had  no  idea  that  his  comrade's  tie  was  the 
badge  of  his  despised  calling. 

Brent  was  down  again  in  a  few  minutes, 
a  grey  cravat  having  superseded  the  offend 
ing  black.  But  even  now,  as  he  compared 
himself  with  his  guide,  he  appeared  sombre 
and  ascetic.  His  black  Prince  Albert  coat 
showed  up  gloomy  and  oppressive  against 


The  Uncalled     213 

young  Perkins's  natty  drab  cutaway  relieved 
by  a  dashing  red  tie.  From  head  to  foot 
the  little  clerk  was  light  and  dapper ;  and 
as  they  moved  along  the  crowded  streets 
the  preacher  felt  much  as  a  conscious  omni 
bus  would  feel  beside  a  pneumatic-tired 
sulky. 

"  You  can  talk  all  you  want  to  about 
your  Chicago,"  Perkins  was  rattling  on, 
"  but  you  can  bet  your  life  Cincinnati 's 
the  greatest  town  in  the  West.  Chicago  's 
nothing  but  a  big  overgrown  country  town. 
Everything  looks  new  and  flimsy  there  to 
a  fellow,  but  here  you  get  something  that 's 
solid.  Chicago  's  pretty  swift,  too,  but  there 
ain't  no  flies  on  us,  either,  when  it  comes  to 
the  go." 

Brent  thought  with  dismay  how  much  his 
companion  knew,  and  felt  a  passing  bitter 
ness  that  he,  though  older,  had  seen  none 
of  these  things. 

"Ever  been  in  Chicago?"  asked  Perkins; 
"  but  of  course  you  have  n't."  This  was 
uttered  in  such  a  tone  of  conviction  that  the 
minister  thought  his  greenness  must  be  very 
apparent. 

"  I  've  never  been  around  much  of  any 
where,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  hard  at  work 
all  my  life." 


214      The  Uncalled 

"  Eh,  that  so  ?  You  don't  look  like 
you  'd  done  much  hard  work.  What  do 
you  do  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  ah  —  write,"  was  the  confused 
answer. 

Perkins,  fortunately,  did  not  notice  the 
confusion.  "  Oh,  ho  !  "  he  said  :  "  do  you 
go  in  for  newspaper  work  ? " 

"  No,  not  for  newspapers." 

"  Oh,  you  're  an  author,  a  regular  out- 
and-outer.  Well,  don't  you  know,  I  thought 
you  were  somehow  different  from  most  fel 
lows  I  've  met.  I  never  could  see  how  you 
authors  could  stay  away  in  small  towns,  where 
you  hardly  ever  see  any  one,  and  write 
about  people  as  you  do ;  but  I  suppose 
you  get  your  people  from  books." 

"  No,  not  entirely,"  replied  Brent,  letting 
the  mistake  go.  "  There  are  plenty  of  in 
teresting  characters  in  a  small  town.  Its  life 
is  just  what  the  life  of  a  larger  city  is,  only 
the  scale  is  smaller." 

"  Well,  if  you  're  on  a  search  for  char 
acters,  you  '11  see  some  to-night  that  '11  be 
worth  putting  in  your  note-book.  We  '11 
stop  here  first." 

The  place  before  which  they  had  stopped 
was  surrounded  by  a  high  vine-covered  lat- 


The   Uncalled     215 

tice  fence :  over  the  entrance  flamed  forth 
in  letters  set  with  gas-lights  the  words 
"  Meyer's  Beer-Garden  and  Variety  Hall. 
Welcome."  He  could  hear  the  sound  of 
music  within,  —  a  miserable  orchestra^and 
a  woman  singing  in  a  high  strident  voice. 
People  were  passing  in  and  out  of  the  place. 
He  hesitated,  and  then,  shaking  himself,  as 
if  to  shake  off  his  scruples,  turned  towards 
the  entrance.  As  he  reached  the  door,  a 
man  who  was  standing  beside  it  thrust  a 
paper  into  his  hand.  He  saw  others  refuse 
to  take  it  as  they  passed.  It  was  only  the 
announcement  of  a  temperance  meeting  at 
a  neighbouring  hall.  He  raised  his  eyes 
to  find  the  gaze  of  the  man  riveted  upon 
him. 

"  Don't  you  go  in  there,  young  man,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  look  like  you  was  used 
to  this  life.  Come  away.  Remember,  it 's 
the  first  step  —  " 

"Chuck  him,"  said  Perkins's  voice  at  his 
elbow.  But  something  in  the  man's  face 
held  him.  A  happy  thought  struck  him. 
He  turned  to  his  companion  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  I  think  I  've  found  a  character 
here  already.  Will  you  excuse  me  for  a 
while  ? " 


2i6     The  Uncalled 

"  Certainly.  Business  before  pleasure. 
Pump  him  all  you  can,  and  then  come  in. 
You  '11  find  me  at  one  of  the  tables  on  the 
farther  side."  Perkins  passed  on. 

"You  won't  go  in,  my  young  friend?'* 
said  the  temperance  man. 

"  What  is  it  to  you  whether  I  go  in  or 
stay  out  ?  "  asked  Brent,  in  a  tone  of  as 
sumed  carelessness. 

"  I  want  to  keep  every  man  I  kin  from 
walkin'  the  path  that  I  walked  and  sufferin' 
as  I  suffer."  He  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
coughing.  His  face  was  old  and  very  thin, 
and  his  hands,  even  in  that  hot  air,  were 
blue  as  with  cold.  UI  wisht  you'd  go  to 
our  meetin'  to-night.  We  Ve  got  a  power 
ful  speaker  there,  that  '11  show  you  the  evils 
of  drink  better 'n  I  kin." 

"  Where  is  this  great  meeting  ?  "  Brent 
tried  to  put  a  sneer  into  his  voice,  but  an 
.unaccountable  tremor  ruined  its  effect. 

He  was  duly  directed  to  the  hall.  "  I 
may  come  around,"  he  said,  carelessly,  and 
sauntered  off,  leaving  the  man  coughing 
beside  the  door  of  the  beer-garden.  "  Given 
all  of  his  life  to  the  devil,"  he  mused,  "  drunk 
himself  to  death,  and  now  seeking  to  steal 
into  heaven  by  giving  away  a  few  tracts  in 


The  Uncalled      217 

his  last  worthless  moments."     He  had  for 
gotten  all  about  Perkins. 

He  strolled  about  for  a  while,  and  then, 
actuated  by  curiosity,  sought  out  the  hall 
where  the  meeting  was  being  held.  It  was 
a  rude  place,  in  a  poor  neighbourhood. 
The  meeting-room  was  up  two  flights  of 
dingy,  rickety  stairs.  Hither  Brent  found 
his  way.  His  acquaintance  of  the  street 
was  there  before  him  and  sitting  far  to  the 
front  among  those  whom,  by  their  position, 
the  young  man  took  to  be  the  speakers  of 
the  evening.  The  room  was  half  full  of 
the  motleyest  crew  that  it  had  ever  been  his 
ill  fortune  to  set  eyes  on.  The  flaring  light 
of  two  lard-oil  torches  brought  out  the 
peculiarities  of  the  queer  crowd  in  fantastic 
prominence.  There  was  everywhere  an 
odour  of  work,  but  it  did  not  hang  chiefly 
about  the  men.  The  women  were  mostly 
little  weazen-faced  creatures,  whom  labour 
and  ill  treatment  had  rendered  inexpressibly 
hideous.  The  men  were  chiefly  of  the  re 
formed.  The  bleared  eyes  and  bloated  faces 
of  some  showed  that  their  reformation  must 
have  been  of  very  recent  occurrence,  while  a 
certain  unsteadiness  in  the  conduct  of  others 
showed  that  with  them  the  process  had  not 
taken  place  at  all. 


218    The   Uncalled 

It  was  late,  and  a  stuffy  little  man  with  a 
wheezy  voice  and  a  very  red  nose  was  hold 
ing  forth  on  the  evils  of  intemperance,  very 
much  to  his  own  satisfaction  evidently,  and 
unmistakably  to  the  weariness  of  his  aud 
ience.  Brent  was  glad  when  he  sat  down. 
Then  there  followed  experiences  from  women 
whose  husbands  had  been  drunkards  and 
from  husbands  whose  wives  had  been  simi 
larly  afflicted.  It  was  all  thoroughly  unin 
teresting  and  commonplace. 

The  young  man  had  closed  his  eyes,  and, 
suppressing  a  yawn,  had  just  determined  to 
go  home,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  new  stir 
in  the  meeting,  and  the  voice  of  the  wheezy 
man  saying  "And  now,  brothers,  we  are  to 
have  a  great  treat :  we  are  to  hear  the  story 
of  the  California  Pilgrim,  told  by  himself. 
Bless  the  Lord  for  his  testimony  !  Go  on, 
my  brother.'7  Brent  opened  his  eyes  and 
took  in  the  scene.  Beside  the  chairman 
stood  the  emaciated  form  of  his  chance 
acquaintance.  It  was  the  man's  face,  now 
seen  in  the  clearer  light,  that  struck  him. 
It  was  thin,  very  thin,  and  of  a  deathly 
pallor.  The  long  grey  hair  fell  in  a  tumbled 
mass  above  the  large  hollow  eyes.  The 
cheek-bones  stood  up  prominently,  and 


The   Uncalled     219 

seemed  almost  bursting  through  the  skin. 
His  whole  countenance  was  full  of  the  terri 
ble,  hopeless  tragedy  of  a  ruined  life.  He 
began  to  speak. 

"  I  '11  have  to  be  very  brief,  brothers  and 
sisters,  as  I  have  n't  much  breath  to  spare. 
But  I  will  tell  you  my  life  simply,  in  order 
to  warn  any  that  may  be  in  the  same  way  to 
change  their  course.  Twenty  years  ago  I 
was  a  hard-workin'  man  in  this  State.  I  got 
along  fairly,  an'  had  enough  to  live  on  an' 
keep  my  wife  an'  baby  decent.  Of  course  I 
took  my  dram  like  the  other  workmen,  an' 
it  never  hurt  me.  But  some  men  can't 
stand  what  others  kin,  an'  the  habit  com 
menced  to  grow  on  me.  I  took  a  spree, 
now  an'  then,  an'  then  went  back  to  work, 
fur  I  was  a  good  hand,  an'  could  always  git 
somethin'  to  do.  After  a  while  I  got  so 
unsteady  that  nobody  would  have  me. 
From  then  on  it  was  the  old  story.  I  got 
discouraged,  an'  drunk  all  the  more.  Three 
years  after  I  begun,  my  home  was  a  wreck, 
an'  I  had  ill-treated  my  wife  until  she  was 
no  better  than  I  was  ;  then  she  got  a  divorce 
from  me,  an'  I  left  the  town.  I  wandered 
from  place  to  place,  sometimes  workin', 
always  drinkin' ;  sometimes  ridin'  on  trains, 


22O     The  Uncalled 

sometimes  trampin'  by  the  roadside.  Fin'lly 
I  drifted  out  to  Californy,  an'  there  I  spent 
most  o'  my  time  until,  a  year  ago,  I  come 
to  see  myself  what  a  miserable  bein*  I  was. 
It  was  through  one  of  your  Bands  of  Hope. 
From  then  I  pulled  myself  up;  but  it  was 
too  late.  I  had  ruined  my  health.  I 
started  for  my  old  home,  talkin'  and  tellin' 
my  story  by  the  way.  I  want  to  get  back  there 
an'  jest  let  the  people  know  that  I  Ve 
repented,  an'  then  I  can  die  in  peace.  I 
want  to  see  ef  my  wife  an'  child  —  "  Here 
a  great  fit  of  coughing  seized  him  again,  and 
he  was  forced  to  sit  down. 

Brent  had  listened  breathlessly  to  every 
word :  a  terrible  fear  was  clutching  at  his 
heart.  When  the  man  sat  down,  he  heard 
the  voice  of  the  chairman  saying,  "  Now  let 
us  all  contribute  what  we  can  to  help  the 
brother  on  his  journey  ;  he  has  n't  far  to  go. 
Come  forward  and  lay  your  contributions  on 
the  table  here,  now.  Some  one  sing.  Now 
who  's  going  to  help  Brother  Brent  ?  " 

The  young  man  heard  the  name.  He 
grasped  the  seat  in  front  of  him  for  support. 
He  seized  his  hat,  staggered  to  his  feet,  and 
stumbled  blindly  out  of  the  room  and  down 
the  stairs. 


The  Uncalled     221 

"  Drunk  "  said  some  one  as  he  passed. 

He  rushed  into  the  street,  crying  within 
himself,  "  My  God  !  my  God  !  "  He  hur 
ried  through  the  crowds,  thrusting  the  people 
right  and  left  and  unheeding  the  curses  that 
followed  him.  He  reached  home  and  groped 
up  to  his  room. 

"  Awful  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Jones.  "  He 
seemed  such  a  good  young  man  ;  but  he  's 
been  out  with  Mr.  Perkins,  and  men  will  be 
men." 

Once  in  his  room,  it  seemed  that  he  would 
go  mad.  Back  and  forth  he  paced  the  floor, 
clenching  his  hands  and  smiting  his  head. 
He  wanted  to  cry  out.  He  felt  the  impulse 
to  beat  his  head  against  the  wall.  "  My 
God  !  my  God !  It  was  my  father,"  he 
cried,  "  going  back  home.  What  shall  I 
do  ?  "  There  was  yet  no  pity  in  his  heart 
for  the  man  whom  he  now  knew  to  be  his 
parent.  His  only  thought  was  of  the  bitter 
ness  that  parent's  folly  had  caused.  "  Oh, 
why  could  he  not  have  died  away  from  home, 
without  going  back  there  to  revive  all  the 
old  memories  ?  Why  must  he  go  back 
there  just  at  this  troublous  time  to  distress 
those  who  have  loved  me  and  help  those 
who  hate  me  to  drag  my  name  in  the  dust  ? 


222     The  Uncalled 

He  has  chosen  his  own  way,  and  it  has  ever 
been  apart  from  me.  He  has  neglected  and 
forgotten  me.  Now  why  does  he  seek  me 
out,  after  a  life  spent  among  strangers  ?  I 
do  not  want  him.  I  will  not  see  him  again. 
I  shall  never  go  home.  I  have  seen  him,  I 
have  heard  him  talk.  I  have  stood  near 
him  and  talked  with  him,  and  just  when  I 
am  leaving  it  all  behind  me,  all  my  past  of 
sorrow  and  degradation,  he  comes  and  lays 
a  hand  upon  me,  and  I  am  more  the  son  of 
Tom  Brent  to-night  than  ever  before.  Is  it 

o 

Fate,  God,  or  the  devil  that  pursues  me 
so?" 

His  passion  was  spending  itself.  When 
he  was  more  calm  he  thought,  "  He  will  go 
home  with  a  religious  testimony  on  his  lips, 
he  will  die  happy,  and  the  man  who  has  spent 
all  his  days  in  drunkenness,  killed  his  wife, 
and  damned  his  son  will  be  preached  through 
the  gates  of  glory  on  the  strength  of  a  few 
words  of  familiar  cant."  There  came  into 
his  mind  a  great  contempt  for  the  system 
which  taught  or  preached  so  absurd  and  un 
fair  a  doctrine.  "  I  wish  I  could  go  to  the 
other  side  of  the  world,"  he  said,  "  and  live 
among  heathens  who  know  no  such  dreams. 
I,  Frederick  Brent,  son  of  Tom  Brent,  tern- 


The  Uncalled     223 

perance  advocate,  sometime  drunkard  and 
wife-beater."  There  was  terrible,  scorching 
irony  in  the  thought.  There  was  a  pitiless 
hatred  in  his  heart  for  his  father's  very 
name. 

"  I  suppose/'  he  went  on,  "  that  Uncle 
'Liph  "  —  he  said  the  name  tenderly  — 
"  has  my  letter  now  and  will  be  writing  to 
me  to  come  home  and  hear  my  father's  dying 
words,  and  receive  perhaps  his  dying  bless 
ing, —  his  dying  blessing!  But  I  will  not 
go  ;  I  will  not  go  back."  Anger,  mingled 
with  shame  at  his  origin  and  a  greater  shame 
at  himself,  flamed  within  him.  "  He  did 
not  care  for  the  helpless  son  sixteen  years 
ago  :  let  him  die  without  the  sight  of  the 
son  now.  His  life  has  cursed  my  life,  his 
name  has  blasted  my  name,  his  blood  has 
polluted  my  blood.  Let  him  die  as  he  lived 
-—without  me." 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  and  struck  the 
table  with  his  clenched  fists. 

Mrs.  Jones  came  to  the  door  to  ask  him 
not  to  make  so  much  noise.  He  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  sat  there  thinking, 
thinking,  until  morning. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

NEXT  morning  when  Brent  went  down 
to  breakfast  he  was  as  a  man  who  had 
passed  through   an  illness.      His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,   his   face  was   pale,  his   step  was 
nervous  and  weak. 

"Just  what  I  expected,"  muttered  Mrs, 
Jones.  "He  was  in  a  beastly  condition  last 
night.  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Perkins  about 
it.  He  had  no  right  to  take  and  get  him  in 
such  a  state." 

She  was  more  incensed  than  ever  when" 
the  gay  young  clerk  came  in  looking  per 
fectly  fresh.  "He's  used  to,, it,"  she  told 
herself,  "  and  it  does  n't  tell  on  him,  but  it 's 
nearly  killed  that  poor  young  man." 

"  Hullo  there,  Brent,"  said  Perkins. 
"  You  chucked  me  for  good  last  night. 
Did  you  lose  your  way,  or  was  your  c  char 
acter'  too  interesting?" 

"  Character  too  interesting,"  was  the  la 
conic  reply. 

"  And  I  '11  bet  you  've  been  awake>  all 
night  studying  it  out." 


The  Uncalled     225 

"You  are  entirely  right  there,"  said  Brent, 
smiling  bitterly.  "  I  have  n't  slept  a  wink  all 
night :  I  Ve  been  studying  out  that  character." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  like  it.  You 
ought  to  take  some  rest  to-day." 

"  I  can't.  I  've  got  to  put  in  my  time  on 
the  same  subject." 

Mrs.  Jones  pursed  her  lips  and  bustled 
among  the  teacups.  The  idea  of  their 
laughing  over  their  escapades  right  before 
her  face  and  thinking  that  she  did  not  un 
derstand  !  She  made  the  mental  observation 
that  all  men  were  natural  born  liars,  and 
most  guilty  when  they  appeared  to  be  most 
innocent.  "  Character,"  indeed  !  Did  they 
think  to  blind  her  to  the  true  situation  of 
things  ?  Oh,  astute  woman  ! 

"  Strange  fellow,"  said  Perkins  to  his 
spoon,  when,  after  a  slight  breakfast,  Brent 
had  left  the  table. 

"  There  's  others  that  are  just  as  strange, 
only  they  think  they  're  sharper,"  quoth 
Mrs.  Jones,  with  a  knowing  look. 

-"I  don't  understand  you,"  returned  her 
boarder,  turning  his  attention  from  his  spoon 
to  the  lady's  face. 

"  There 's  none  so  blind  as  those  who 
don't  want  to  see." 

15 


aa6     The  Uncalled 

"  Again  I  say,  I  don't  understand  you, 
Mrs.  Jones." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Perkins,  it 's  no  use  trying  to 
fool  me.  I  know  men.  In  my  younger 
days  I  was  married  to  a  man." 

"  Strange  contingency  !  But  still  it  casts 
no  light  on  your  previous  remarks." 

"  You  've  got  very  innocent  eyes,  I  must 
say,  Mr.  Perkins." 

"  The  eyes,  madam,  are  the  windows  of 
the  soul,"  Perkins  quoted,  with  mock 
gravity. 

"  Well,  if  the  eyes  are  the  soul's  windows, 
there  are  some  people  who  always  keep  their 
windows  curtained." 

"  But  I  must  deny  any  such  questionable 
performance  on  my  part.  I  have  not  the 
shrewdness  to  veil  my  soul  from  the  scrutiny 
of  so  keen  an  observer  as  yourself." 

"Oh,  flattery  isn't  going  to  do  your 
cause  one  mite  of  good,  Mr.  Perkins.  I  'm 
not  going  to  scold,  but  next  time  you  get 
him  in  such  a  state  I  wish  you  'd  bring  him 
home  yourself,  and  not  let  him  come  tearing 
in  here  like  a  madman,  scaring  a  body  half 
to  death." 

"  Will  you  kindly  explain  yourself?  What 
condition  ?  And  who  is  c  him  '  ?  " 


The  Uncalled     227 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  don't  know." 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
were  n't  out  with  Mr.  Brent  last  night  be 
fore  he  came  home  ?  " 

"  I  assuredly  was  not  with  him  after  the 
first  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Well,  it 's  hard  to  believe  that  he  got 
that  way  by  himself." 

"  That  way  !  Why,  he  left  me  at  the  door 
of  Meyer's  beer-garden  to  talk  to  a  temper 
ance  crank  who  he  thought  was  a  character." 

"  Well,  no  temperance  character  sent  him 
rushing  and  stumbling  in  here  as  he  did  last 
night.  ( Character,'  indeed  !  It  was  at  the 
bottom  of  a  pail  of  beer  or  something 
worse." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  he  was  c  loaded.' 
He  's  an  author,  and  I  guess  his  eye  got  to 
rolling  in  a  fine  frenzy,  and  he  had  to  hurry 
home  to  keep  it  from  rolling  out  of  his  head 
into  the  street." 

"  Mr.  Perkins,  this  is  no  subject  for  fun. 
I  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  and  it  was  a 
most  disgraceful  spectacle.  I  take  your 
word  for  it  that  you  were  not  with  Mr. 
Brent,  but  you  need  not  try  to  go  further 
and  defend  him." 


22,8      The  Uncalled 

"  I  'm  not  trying  to  defend  him  at  all  ; 
it 's  really  none  of  my  business."  And 
Perkins  went  off  to  work,  a  little  bit  angry 
and  a  good  deal  more  bewildered.  "  I 
thought  he  was  a  c  jay/  "  he  remarked. 

To  Brent  the  day  was  a  miserable  one. 
He  did  not  leave  his  room,  but  spent  the 
slow  hours  pacing  back  and  forth  in  ab 
sorbed  thought,  interrupted  now  and  then 
by  vain  attempts  to  read.  His  mind  was  in 
a  state  of  despairing  apprehension.  It 
needed  no  prophetic  sense  to  tell  him  what 
would  happen.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
how  long  a  time  would  elapse  before  he 
might  expect  to  receive  word  from  Dexter 
summoning  him  home.  It  all  depended 
upon  whether  or  not  the  "  California  Pil 
grim  "  got  money  enough  last  night  for 
exploiting  his  disgraceful  history  to  finish 
the  last  stage  of  the  journey. 

What  disgusted  the  young  man  so  in 
tensely  was  that  his  father,  after  having  led 
the  life  he  had,  should  make  capital  out  of 
relating  it.  Would  not  a  quiet  repentance, 
if  it  were  real,  have  been  quite  sufficient  ? 
He  very  much  distrusted  the  sincerity  of 
motive  that  made  a  man  hold  himself  up  as 
an  example  of  reformed  depravity,  when  the 


The  Uncalled     229 

hope  of  gain  was  behind  it  all.  The  very 
charity  which  he  had  preached  so  fiercely  to 
his  congregation  he  could  not  extend  to  his 
own  father.  Indeed,  it  appeared  to  him 
(although  this  may  have  been  a  trick  of  his 
distorted  imagination)  that  the  "  Pilgrim  " 
had  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  the 
record  of  his  past,  as  though  it  were  excel 
lent  to  be  bad,  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  conversion.  His  lip  involuntarily  curled 
when  he  thought  of  conversion.  He  was 
disgusted  with  all  men  and  principles.  One 
man  offends,  and  a  whole  system  suffers. 
He  felt  a  peculiar  self-consciousness,  a  self- 
glorification  in  his  own  misery.  Placing  the 
accumulated  morality  of  his  own  life  against 
the  full-grown  evil  of  his  father's,  it  angered 
him  to  think  that  by  the  intervention  of  a 
seemingly  slight  quantity  the  results  were 
made  equal. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  it  all,"  he  asked 
himself,  "  my  struggle,  involuntary  though  / 
it  was,  my  self-abnegation,  my  rigidity,  when 
what  little  character  I  have  built  up  is  over 
shadowed  by  my  father's  past  ?  Why 
should  I  have  worked  so  hard  and  long  for 
those  rewards,  real  or  fancied,  the  favour  of 
God  and  the  respect  of  men,  when  he,  after 


230     The  Uncalled 

a  career  of  outrageous  dissipation,  by  a 
simple  act  or  claim  of  repentance  wins  the 
Deity's  smile  and  is  received  into  the  arms 
of  people  with  gushing  favour,  while  I  am 
looked  upon  as  the  natural  recipient  of  all 
his  evil  ?  Of  course  they  tell  us  that  there 
is  more  joy  over  the  one  lamb  that  is  found 
than  over  the  ninety  and  nine  that  went  not 
astray ;  it  puts  rather  a  high  premium  on 
straying."  He  laughed  bitterly.  "  With 
what  I  have  behind  me,  is  it  worth  being 
decent  for  the  sake  of  decency?  After  all, 
is  the  game  worth  the  candle  ?  " 

He  took  up  a  little  book  which  many 
times  that  morning  he  had  been  attempting 
to  read.  It  was  an  edition  of  Matthew 
Arnold's  poems,  and  one  of  the  stanzas  was 
marked.  It  was  in  "  Mycerinus." 

Oh,  wherefore  cheat  our  youth,  if  thus  it  be, 
Of  one  short  joy,  one  lust,  one  pleasant  dream, 

Stringing  vain  words  of  powers  we  cannot  see, 
Blind  divinations  of  a  will  supreme  ? 

Lost  labour  !  when  the  circumambient  gloom 

But  holds,  if  gods,  gods  careless  of  our  doom  ! 

He  laid  the  book  down  with  a  sigh.  It 
seemed  to  fit  his  case. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning,  how 
ever,  that  his  anticipations  were  realised, 


The  Uncalled     231 

and  the  telegraph  messenger  stopped  at  his 
door.  The  telegram  was  signed  Eliphalet 
Hodges,  and  merely  said,  "  Come  at  once. 
You  are  needed." 

"Needed"!  What  could  they  "need" 
of  him  ?  "  Wanted "  would  have  been  a 
better  word,  —  "  wanted  "  by  the  man  who 
for  sixteen  years  had  forgotten  that  he  had  a 
son.  He  had  already  decided  that  he  would 
not  go,  and  was  for  the  moment  sorry  that 
he  had  stayed  where  the  telegram  could  reach 
him  and  stir  his  mind  again  into  turmoil ; 
but  the  struggle  had  already  recommenced. 
Maybe  his  father  was  burdening  his  good 
old  friends,  and  it  was  they  who  "  needed  " 
him.  Then  it  was  his  duty  to  go,  but  not 
for  his  father's  sake.  He  would  not  even 
see  his  father.  No,  not  that !  He  could 
not  see  him. 

It  ended  by  his  getting  his  things  together 
and  taking  the  next  train.  He  was  going, 
he  told  himself,  to  the  relief  of  his  guardian 
and  his  friend,  and  not  because  his  father  — 
his  father  !  —  wanted  him.  Did  he  deceive 
himself?  Were  there  not,  at  the  bottom  of 
it  all,  the  natural  promptings  of  so  close  a 
relationship  which  not  even  cruelty,  neglect, 
and  degradation  could  wholly  stifle  ? 


232,      The  Uncalled 

He  saw  none  of  the  scenes  that  had 
charmed  his  heart  on  the  outward  journey  a 
few  days  before ;  for  now  his  sight  was  either 
far  ahead  or  entirely  inward.  When  he 
reached  Dexter,  it  was  as  if  years  had  passed 
since  he  left  its  smoky  little  station.  Things 
did  not  look  familiar  to  him  as  he  went  up  the 
old  street,  because  he  saw  them  with  new  eyes. 

Mr.  Hodges  must  have  been  watching  for 
him,  for  he  opened  the  door  before  he 
reached  it. 

"  Come  in,  Freddie,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  tiptoeing  back  to  his  chair.  "  I  've 
got  great  news  fur  you." 

"  You  need  n't  tell  me  what  it  is,"  said 
Brent.  "  I  know  that  my  father  is  here.  " 

Eliphalet  started  up.  "  Who  told  you  ?  " 
he  said  ;  "  some  blockhead,  I  '11  be  bound, 
who  did  n't  break  it  to  you  gently  as  I  would 
'a'  done.  Actu'lly  the  people  in  this  here 
town  —  " 

"Don't  blame  the  people,  Uncle  'Liph," 
said  the  young  man,  smiling  in  spite  of  him 
self.  "  I  found  it  out  for  myself  before  I 
arrived ;  and,  I  assure  you,  it  was  n't  gently 
broken  to  me  either."  To  the  old  man's 
look  of  bewildered  amazement,  Brent  replied 
with  the  story  of  his  meeting  with  his  father. 


The   Uncalled      233 

"  It 's  the  good  Lord's  doin's,"  said  Eliph- 
alet,  reverently. 

"I  don't  know  just  whose  doing  it  is,  but 
it  is  an  awful  accusation  to  put  on  the  Lord. 
I  've  still  got  enough  respect  for  Him  not  to 
believe  that." 

"  Freddie,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  hor 
ror-stricken,  "  you  ain't  a-gettin'  irreverent, 
you  ain't  a-beginnin'  to  doubt,  air  you  ? 
Don't  do  it.  I  know  jest  what  you  've  had 
to  bear  all  along,  an'  I  know  what  you  're 
a-bearin'  now,  but  you  ain't  the  only  one 
that  has  their  crosses.  I  'm  a-bearin'  my 
own,  an'  it  ain't  light  neither.  You  don't 
know  what  it  is,  my  boy,  when  you  feel  that 
somethin'  precious  is  all  your  own,  to  have  a 
real  owner  come  in  an'  snatch  it  away  from 
you.  While  I  thought  yore  father  was  dead, 
you  seemed  like  my  own  son ;  but  now  it 
'pears  like  I  'ain't  got  no  kind  o'  right  to 
you  an'  it 's  kind  o'  hard,  Freddie,  it 's  kind 
o'  hard,  after  all  these  years.  I  know  how 
a  mother  feels  when  she  loses  her  baby,  but 
when  it 's  a  grown  son  that 's  lost,  one  that 
she 's  jest  been  pilin'  up  love  fur,  it 's  —  it 's 
The  old  man  paused,  overcome  by 
his  emotions. 

"  I   am   as   much  —  no.  more    than   ever 


234    The  Uncalled 

your  son,  Uncle  'Liph.  No  one  shall  ever 
come  between  us ;  no,  not  even  the  man  I 
should  call  father." 

"He  is  yore  father,  Freddie.  It's  jest 
like  I  told  Hester.  She  was  fur  sendin'  him 
along."  In  spite  of  himself,  a  pang  shot 
through  Brent's  heart  at  this.  "  But  I  said, 
(  No,  no,  Hester,  he  's  Fred's  father  an'  we 
must  take  him  in,  fur  our  boy's  sake.' ' 

"  Not  for  my  sake,  not  for  my  sake ! " 
broke  out  the  young  man. 

"  Well,  then,  fur  our  Master's  sake.  We 
took  him  in.  He  was  mighty  low  down. 
It  seemed  like  the  Lord  had  jest  spared  him 
to  git  here.  Hester's  with  him  now,  an'  — 
an*  —  kin  you  stand  to  hear  it  ?  —  the  doctor 
says  he 's  only  got  a  little  while  to  live." 

"  Oh,  I  can  stand  it,"  Brent  replied,  with 
unconscious  irony.  The  devotion  and  the 
goodness  of  the  old  man  had  softened  him  as 
thought,  struggle,  and  prayer  had  failed  to  do. 

"Will  you  go  in  now  ? "  asked  Eliphalet. 
"  He  wants  to  see  you  :  he  can't  die  in  peace 
without." 

The  breath  came  hard  between  his  teeth 
as  Brent  replied,  "  I  said  I  would  n't  see  him. 
I  came  because  I  thought  you  needed  me." 

"  He  's  yore  father,  Freddie,  an'  he  's  peni- 


The  Uncalled     235 

tent.  All  of  us  pore  mortals  need  a  good  deal 
o'  furgivin',  an*  it  does  n't  matter  ef  one  of  us 
needs  a  little  more  or  a  little  less  than  another  : 
it  puts  us  all  on  the  same  level.  Remember 
yore  sermon  about  charity,  an'  —  an'  jedge 
not.  You  'ain't  seen  all  o'  His  plan.  Come 
on."  And,  taking  the  young  man  by  the 
hand,  he  led  him  into  the  room  that  had 
been  his  own.  Hester  rose  as  he  entered, 
and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  then  she  and 
her  husband  silently  passed  out. 

The  sufferer  lay  upon  the  bed,  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  face  as  white  as  the  pillows  on 
which  he  reclined.  Disease  had  fattened  on 
the  hollow  cheeks  and  wasted  chest.  One 
weak  hand  picked  aimlessly  at  the  coverlet, 
and  the  laboured  breath  caught  and  faltered  as 
if  already  the  hand  of  Death  was  at  his  throat. 

The  young  man  stood  by  the  bed,  trem 
bling  in  every  limb,  his  lips  now  as  white 
as  the  ashen  face  before  him.  He  was 
cold,  but  the  perspiration  stood  in  beads  on 
his  brow  as  he  stood  gazing  upon  the  face 
of  his  father.  Something  like  pity  stirred 
him  for  a  moment,  but  a  vision  of  his 
own  life  came  up  before  him,  and  his  heart 
grew  hard  again.  Here  was  the  man  who 
had  wronged  him  irremediably. 


236     The  Uncalled 

Finally  the  dying  man  stirred  uneasily, 
muttering,  "  I  dreamed  that  he  had  come." 

"  I  am  here."  Brent's  voice  sounded 
strange  to  him. 

The  eyes  opened,  and  the  sufferer  gazed 
at  him.  "  Are  you  —  " 

"  I  am  your  son." 

"  You  —  why,  I  —  saw  you  —  " 

"  You  saw  me  in  Cincinnati  at  the  door  of 
a  beer-garden."  He  felt  as  if  he  had  struck 
the  man  before  him  with  a  lash. 

"Did  — you  — go  in?" 

"  No:   I  went  to  your  temperance  meeting." 

The  elder  Brent  did  not  hear  the  ill-con 
cealed  bitterness  in  his  son's  voice.  "  Thank 
God,"  he  said.  "You  heard  —  my  —  story, 
an'  —  it  leaves  me  —  less —  to  tell.  Some 
thing —  made  me  speak — to  you  that  — 
night.  Come  nearer.  Will  —  you  —  shake 
hands  with  —  me  ?  " 

Fred  reached  over  and  took  the  clammy 
hand  in  his  own. 

"  I  have  —  had  —  a  pore  life,"  the  now 
fast  weakening  man  went  on  ;  uan'  I  have  — 
done  wrong  —  by  —  you,  but  I  —  have  — 
repented.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

Something  came  up  into  Brent's  heart 
and  burned  there  like  a  flame. 


The  Uncalled      237 

"  You  have  ruined  my  life,'1  he  answered, 
"  and  left  me  a  heritage  of  shame  and  evil." 

"  I  know  it  —  God  help  me —  I  know  it ; 
but  won't  —  you  —  forgive  me,  my  son  ? 
I  —  want  to  —  call  you  —  that  — just  once." 
He  pressed  his  hand  closer. 

Could  he  forgive  him?  Could  he  forget 
all  that  he  had  suffered  and  would  yet  suf 
fer  on  this  man's  account  ?  Then  the  words 
and  the  manner  of  old  Eliphalet  came  to 
him,  and  he  said,  in  a  softened  voice,  "  I 
forgive  you,  father."  He  hesitated  long 
over  the  name. 

"  Thank  God  for  —  for  —  the  name  — 
an*  —  forgiveness."  He  carried  his  son's 
hand  to  his  lips,  "  I  sha'  n't  be  —  alive  — 
long  —  now,  — an*  my  —  death  —  will  set  — 
people  —  to  talkin'.  They  will  —  bring  — 
up  the  — past.  I  —  don't  want  you  —  to  — 
stay  an'  have  —  to  bear  —  it.  I  don't  want 
to  —  bring  any  more  on  —  you  than  I  have 
—  already.  Go  —  away,  as  —  soon  as  I  am 
dead." 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  friends  to  bear  my 
burdens." 

"  They  will  not  speak  —  of  them  —  as 
they  —  will  speak  of — you,  my  —  poor  — 
boy.  You  —  are  —  old  —  Tom  Brent's  — 


238      The  Uncalled 

son.     I — wish    I    could    take  —  my    name 

—  an'  all  —  it  means  —  along  —  with  —  me. 
But  —  promise  —  me  —  you  —  will  —  go. 
Promise  —  " 

"  I  will  go  if  you  so  wish  it." 
"Thank —  you.    An'  — now  —  good-bye. 
I  —  can't  talk  —  any  —  more.     I  don't  dare 

—  to  advise  —  you  —  after  —  all  —  you  — 
know  —  of  me  ;  but  do  —  right  —  do  right." 

The  hand  relaxed  and  the  eyelids  closed. 
Brent  thought  that  he  was  dead,  and  prompted 
by  some  impulse,  bent  down  and  kissed  his 
father's  brow,  —  his  father,  after  all.  A 
smile  flitted  over  the  pale  face,  but  the  eyes 
did  not  open.  But  he  did  not  die  then. 
Fred  called  Mrs.  Hodges  and  left  her  with 
his  father  while  he  sat  with  Eliphalet.  It 
was  not  until  the  next  morning,  when  the 
air  was  full  of  sunlight,  the  song  of  birds, 
and  the  chime  of  church  bells,  that  old  Tom 
Brent's  weary  spirit  passed  out  on  its  search 
for  God.  He  had  not  spoken  after  his  talk 
with  his  son. 

There  were  heavy  hearts  about  his  bed, 
but  there  were  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  his 
death,  —  only  regret  for  the  manner  of  his 
life. 

Mrs.   Hodges  and  Eliphalet  agreed  that 


The  Uncalled     239 

the  dead  man  had  been  right  in  wishing  his 
son  to  go  away,  and,  after  doing  what  he 
could  to  lighten  their  load,  he  again  stood  on 
the  threshold,  leaving  his  old  sad  home. 
Mrs.  Hodges  bade  him  good-bye  at  the  door, 
and  went  back.  She  was  too  bowed  to  seem 
hard  any  more,  or  even  to  pretend  it.  But 
Eliphalet  followed  him  to  the  gate.  The 
two  stood  holding  each  other's  hands  and 
gazing  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I  know  you  're  a-goin'  to  do  right  with 
out  me  a-tellin'  you  to,"  said  the  old  man, 
chokingly.  "  That 's  all  I  want  of  you. 
Even  ef  you  don't  preach,  you  kin  live  an' 
work  fur  Him." 

"  I  shall  do  all  the  good  I  can,  Uncle 
'Liph,  but  I  shall  do  it  in  the  name  of  poor 
humanity  until  I  come  nearer  to  Him.  I 
am  dazed  and  confused  now,  and  want  the 
truth." 

"  Go  on,  my  boy  ;  you  're  safe.  You  Ve 
got  the  truth  now,  only  you  don't  know  it; 
fur  they 's  One  that  says,  'Inasmuch  as  ye 
have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  me.' ' 

Another  hearty  hand-shake,  and  the  young 
man  was  gone. 

As  Fred  went  down  the  street,  some  one 


240     The  Uncalled 

accosted  him  and  said,  "  I  hear  yore  father  's 
home/' 

"  Yes,  he  's  home,"  said  Fred. 

Tom  Brent  was  buried  on  Tuesday  morn 
ing.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson,  who,  in  spite 
of  his  age,  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  re 
sume  charge  of  his  church,  preached  the 
sermon.  He  spoke  feelingly  of  the  "  dear 
departed  brother,  who,  though  late,  had 
found  acceptance  with  the  Lord,"  and  he 
ended  with  a  prayer  —  which  was  a  shot  — 
for  the  "  departed's  misguided  son,  who  had 
rejected  his  Master's  call  and  was  now  wan 
dering  over  the  earth  in  rebellion  and  sin." 
It  was  well  that  he  did  not  see  the  face  of 
Eliphalet  Hodges  then. 

Dan'l  Hastings  nodded  over  the  sermon. 
In  the  back  part  of  the  church,  Mrs.  Mar 
tin  and  Mrs.  Smith  whispered  together  and 
gaped  at  the  two  old  mourners,  and  won 
dered  where  the  boy  was.  They  had  "  heerd 
he  was  in  town." 

Bill  Tompkins  brought  Elizabeth  to  the 
funeral. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

IN  another  town  than  Dexter  the  events 
narrated  in  the  last  chapter  would  have 
proved  a  nine  days'  wonder,  gained  their 
meed  of  golden  gossip,  and  then  given  way 
to  some  newer  sensation.  But  not  so  here. 
This  little  town  was  not  so  prolific  in  start 
ling  episodes  that  she  could  afford  to  let  such 
a  one  pass  with  anything  less  than  the  fullest 
comment.  The  sudden  return  of  Tom 
Brent,  his  changed  life,  and  his  death  were 
talked  of  for  many  a  day.  The  narrative  of 
his  life  was  yet  to  be  a  stock  camp-meeting 
sermon  story,  and  the  next  generation  of 
Dexterites  was  destined  to  hear  of  him. 
He  became  a  part  of  the  town's  municipal 
history. 

Fred's  disappearance  elicited  no  less  re 
mark.  Speculations  as  to  his  whereabouts 
and  his  movements  were  rife.  The  storm 
of  gossip  which  was  going  on  around  them 
was  not  lost  on  Eliphalet  Hodges  and  his 
16 


242     The  Uncalled 

wife.  But,  save  when  some  too  adventu 
rous  inquirer  called  down  upon  himself  Mrs. 
Hodges'  crushing  rebuke  or  the  old  man's 
mild  resentment,  they  went  their  ways  silent 
and  uncommunicative. 

They  had  heard  from  the  young  man  first 
about  two  weeks  after  his  departure.  He 
had  simply  told  them  that  he  had  got  a 
place  in  the  office  of  a  packing  establishment. 
Furthermore,  he  had  begged  that  they  let 
his  former  fellow-townsmen  know  nothing 
of  his  doings  or  of  his  whereabouts,  and  the 
two  old  people  had  religiously  respected  his 
wishes.  Perhaps  there  was  some  reluctance 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Hodges,  for  after  the 
first  letter  she  said,  "  It  does  seem  like  a  sin 
an'  a  shame,  'Liphalet,  that  we  can't  tell 
these  here  people  how  nice  Fred 's  a-doin', 
so's  to  let  'em  know  that  he  don't  need 
none  o'  their  help.  It  jest  makes  my  tongue 
fairly  itch  when  I  see  Mis'  Smith  an'  that 
bosom  crony  o'  her'n,  Sallie  Martin,  a- 
nosin'  around  tryin'  to  see  what  they  kin 
find  out." 

"  It  is  amazin'  pesterin',  Hester.  I  'm 
su'prised  at  how  I  feel  about  it  myself,  fur 
I  never  was  no  hand  to  want  to  gossip ;  but 
when  I  hear  old  Dan'l  Hastings,  that  can't 


The  Uncalled      243 

move  out  o'  his   cheer   fur  the   rheumatiz, 

—  when  I  hear   him  a-sayin'  that  he  reck 
oned  that  Fred  was  a-goin'  to  the  dogs,  I  felt 
jest  like  up  an*  tellin'  him  how  things  was." 

"  Why  on  airth  did  n't  you  ?  Ef  I  'd  Y 
been  there,  I'd  —  " 

<c  But  you  know  what  Freddie's  letter 
said.  I  kept  still  on  that  account ;  but  I 
tell  you  I  looked  at  Dan'l."  From  his 
pocket  the  old  man  took  the  missive  worn 
with  many  readings,  and  gazed  at  it  fondly, 
"  Yes,"  he  repeated,  "  I  looked  at  Dan'l  hard. 
I  felt  jest  like  up  an'  tellin'  him." 

"  Well,  no  wonder.  I  'm  afeard  I'd  '  a' 
clean  furgot  Freddie's  wishes  an'  told  him 
everything.  To  think  of  old  Dan'l  Hast 
ings,  as  old  he  is,  a-gossipin'  about  other 
people's  business  !  Sakes  alive  !  he  needs 
every  breath  he  's  got  now  fur  his  prayers, 

—  as  all  of  us  pore  mortals  do  now,"  added 
Mrs.  Hodges,  as  she  let  her  eyes  fall  upon 
her  own  wrinkled  hands. 

"  Yes,  we  're  old,  Hester,  you  an'  I  ;  but 
I  'm  mighty  glad  o'  the  faith  I  've  been 
a-storin'  up,  fur  it 's  purty  considerable  of  a 
help  now." 

"  Of  course,  'Liphalet,  faith  is  a  great 
comfort,  but  it 's  a  greater  one  to  know  that 


244    The  Uncalled 

you  've  allus  tried  to  do  yore  dooty  the  very 
best  you  could ;  not  a-sayin'  that  you  'ain't 
tried." 

"  Most  of  us  tries,  Hester,  even  Dan'l." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  talk  about  Dan'l  Hast 
ings.  He 's  jest  naturally  spiteful  an'  crab 
bed.  I  declare,  I  don't  see  how  he  's  a-goin' 
to  squeeze  into  the  kingdom." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,  Hester.  God  ain't 
a-goin'  to  ask  you  to  find  a  way." 

Mrs.  Hodges  did  not  reply.  She  and  her 
husband  seldom  disagreed  now,  because  he 
seldom  contradicted  or  found  fault  with  her. 
But  if  this  dictum  of  his  went  unchallenged, 
it  was  not  so  with  some  later  conclusions  at 
which  he  arrived  on  the  basis  of  another  of 
Fred's  letters. 

It  was  received  several  months  after  the 

settlement  of  the  young  man  in  Cincinnati, 

and   succeeded  a  long  silence.     "  You  will 

think,"  it  ran,  "  that  I  have  forgotten  you ; 

but  it  is  not  so.      My  life  has  been  very  full 

here  of  late,  it  is  true,  but  not  so  full  as  to 

exclude  you  and  good  Aunt  Hester.     I  feel 

r    that   I   am   growing.     I    can  take  good  full 

>'.  breaths  here.      I  could  n't  in  Dexter:  the  air 

was  too  rarefied  by  religion." 

Mrs.  Hodges  gasped  as  her  husband  read 


The  Uncalled     245 

this  aloud,  but  there  was  the  suspicion  of 
a  smile  about  the  corners  of  Eliphalet's 
mouth. 

"  You  ask  me  if  I  attend  any  church,"  the 
letter  went  on.  "  Yes,  I  do.  When  I  first 
left,  I  thought  that  I  never  wanted  to  see 
the  inside  of  a  meeting-house  again.  But 
there  is  a  young  lady  in  our  office  who  is 
very  much  interested  in  church  work,  and 
somehow  she  has  got  me  interested  too,  and 
I  go  to  her  church  every  Sunday.  It  is 
Congregational." 

"  Congregational !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hod 
ges.  "  Congregational !  an*  he  borned  an' 
raised  up  in  the  Methodist  faith.  It's  the 
first  step." 

"  He  was  n't  borned  nothin'  but  jest  a 
pore  little  outcast  sinner,  an'  as  fur  as  the 
denomination  goes,  I  guess  that  church  is 
about  as  good  as  any  other." 

"'Liphalet  Hodges,  air  you  a-backslidin' 
too  ?  " 

"  No  :  I  'm  like  Freddie;  I'm  a-growin'." 

"  It 's  a  purty  time  of  life  fur  you  to  be 
a-talkin'  about  growin'.  You  're  jest  like 
an  old  tree  that  has  fell  in  a  damp  place  an' 
sen's  out  a  few  shoots  on  the  trunk.  It 
thinks  it's  a-growin'  too,  but  them  shoots 


246     The  Uncalled 

soon  wither,  an*  the  tree  rots ;  that's  what  it 
does." 

"  But  before  it  rotted,  it  growed  all  that 
was  in  it  to  grow,  didn't  it.  Well,  that's 
all  anybody  kin  do,  tree  or  human  bein'." 
He  paused  for  a  moment.  "  I  'ain't  got  all 
my  growth  yit." 

"  You  kin  git  the  rest  in  the  garden  of 
the  Lord." 

"  It  ain't  good  to  change  soil  on  some 
plants  too  soon.  I  ain't  ready  to  be  set  out." 
He  went  on  reading  : 

" ( I  'm  not  so  narrow  as  I  was  at  home. 
I  don't  think  so  many  things  are  wrong  as  I 
used  to.  It  is  good  to  be  like  other  people 
sometimes,  and  not  to  feel  yoreself  apart 
from  all  the  rest  of  humanity.  I  am  grow 
ing  to  act  more  like  the  people  I  meet,  and 
so  I  am  — ' :"  the  old  man's  hand  trembled, 
and  he  moved  the  paper  nearer  to  his  eyes 
_«<!„'  What 's  this  he  says  ?  c  I  am 
learning  to  dance.' ' 

"There!"  his  wife  shot  forth  triumph 
antly.  "  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  Going  to  a 
Congregational  church  an'  learnin'  to  dance, 
an'  he  not  a  year  ago  a  preacher  of  the 
gospel." 

Eliphalet  was  silent  for  some  time :  his 


The  Uncalled      247 

eyes  looked  far  out  into  space.  Then  he 
picked  up  the  paper  that  had  fluttered 
from  his  hand,  and  a  smile  flitted  over  his 
face. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know/'  he  said.  "  Freddie 's 
young,  an*  they  's  worse  things  in  the  world 
than  dancin'. " 

"  You  ain't  a-upholdin'  him  in  that  too, 
air  you  ?  Well,  I  never  !  You  'd  uphold  that 
sinful  boy  ef  he  committed  murder." 

"  I  ain't  a-upholdin'  nothin'  but  what  I 
think  is  right." 

"Right !  'Liphalet  Hodges,  what  air  you 
a-sayin'  ? " 

"  Not  that  I  mean  to  say  that  dancin'  is 
right,  but — ' 

"There  ain't  no  £  buts'  in  the  Christian 
religion,  'Liphalet,  an'  there  ain't  no  use  in 
yore  tryin'  to  cover  up  Freddie's  faults." 

"  I  ain't  a-tryin'  to  cover  nothin'  up  from 
God.  But  sometimes  I  git  to  thinkin'  that 
mebbe  we  put  a  good  many  more  bonds  on 
ourselves  than  the  Lord  ever  meant  us  to 
carry." 

"  Oh,  some  of  us  don't  struggle  under 
none  too  heavy  burdens.  Some  of  us  have 
a  way  of  jest  slippin'  'em  off  of  our  shoulders 
like  a  bag  of  flour." 


248      The  Uncalled 

"  Meanin'  me.  Well,  mebbe  I  have  tried 
to  make  things  jest  as  easy  fur  myself  as  pos 
sible,  but  I  'ain't  never  tried  to  make  'em  no 
harder  fur  other  people.  I  like  to  think  of 
the  Master  as  a  good  gentle  friend,  an'  mebbe 
I  'ain't  shifted  so  many  o'  the  burdens  He 
put  on  me  that  He  won't  let  me  in  at  last." 

"  'Liphalet,  I  didn't  say  what  I  said  fur  no 
slur  ag'in'  you.  You  're  as  good  a  Christian 
man  as  —  well,  as  most." 

"  I  know  you  did  n't  mean  no  slur,  Hes 
ter.  It  was  jest  yore  dooty  to  say  it.  I  Ve 
come  to  realise  how  strong  yore  feelin' 
about  dooty  is,  in  the  years  we  Ve  been 
together,  an'  I  would  n't  want  you  to  be  any 
different." 

The  calm  of  old  age  had  come  to  these 
two.  Life's  turbulent  waters  toss  us  and 
threaten  to  rend  our  frail  bark  in  pieces. 
But  the  swelling  of  the  tempest  only  lifts  us 
higher,  and  finally  we  reach  and  rest  upon 
the  Ararat  of  age,  with  the  swirling  floods 
below  us. 

Eliphalet  went  on  with  the  letter.  "  He 
says  some  more  about  that  little  girl.  f  Alice 
is  a  very  nice  and  sensible  girl.  I  like  her 
very  much.  She  helps  me  to  get  out  of  myself 
and  to  be  happy.  I  have  never  known  be- 


The  Uncalled     249 

fore  what  a  good  thing  it  was  to  be  happy, 
—  perhaps  because  I  have  tried  so  hard  to 
be  so.     I  believe  that  I    have   been   selfish 
and  egotistical/     Freddie   don't    furgit    his 
words,"   the  old    man  paused   to  say.     " c  I 
have   always  thought  too  much    of  myself, 
and   not  enough  of  others.     That  was  the 
reason  that  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  live 
down  the  opposition  in  Dexter.     It  seems 
that,  after  all  your  kindness  to  me,  I  might 
have  stayed  and  made  you  and  Aunt  Hes 
ter  happy  for  the  rest  of  your  days/      Bless 
that  boy  !     £  But  the  air  stifled  me.     I  could 
not  breathe  in  it.     Now  that  I  am  away,  I 
can  look  back  and  see  it  all  —  my  mistakes 
and  my  shortcomings ;  for  my  horizon  is  broad 
er  and   I  can  see  clearer.     I  have  learned  to 
know  what  pleasure  is,  and  it  has  been  like 
a  stimulant   to   me.     I  have  been   given   a 
greater  chance  to  love,  and  it  has  been  like 
the  breath  of  life  to  me.     I   have  come  face 
to  face  with  Christianity  without  cant,  and  I 
respect  it  for  what  it  is.     Alice  understands 
me  and  brings  out  the  best  that  is  in  me.     I 
have  always  thought  that  it  was  good  for  a 
young  man  to  have  a  girl  friend. ' 

For  an  instant,  Mrs.  Hodges  resumed  her 
old  manner.     A  slight  wave  from  the  old 


250     The  Uncalled 

flood  had  reached  the  bark  and  rocked  it. 
She  pursed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head. 
"  He  furgot  Elizabeth  in  a  mighty  short 
time." 

"  Ef  he  had  n't  he  'd  ought  to  be  spanked 
like  a  child.  Elizabeth  never  was  the  kind 
of  a  mate  fur  Freddie,  an*  there  ain't  nobody 
that  knows  it  better  than  you  yoreself,  Hes 
ter,  an'  you  know  it." 

Mrs.  Hodges  did  not  reply.  The  wave 
let  had  subsided  again. 

"Now  jest  listen  how  he  ends  up.  'I 
want  you  and  Aunt  Hester  to  come  down 
and  see  me  when  you  can.  I  will  send  for  you 
in  a  week  or  two,  if  you  will  promise  to  come. 
Write  to  me,  both  of  you.  Won't  you  ? 
Your  changed  boy,  Fred.'  Changed,  an' 
I  'm  glad  of  it.  He's  more  like  a  natural 
boy  of  his  age  now  than  he  ever  was  before. 
He's  jest  like  a  young  oak  saplin'.  Before 
he  allus  put  me  in  mind  o'  one  o'  them 
oleander  slips  that  you  used  to  cut  off 
an'  hang  ag'in'  the  house  in  a  bottle  o' 
water  so  's  they  'd  root.  We  '11  go  down, 
won't  we,  Hester  ?  We  '11  go  down,  an' 
see  him." 

"  Not  me,  'Liphalet.  You  kin  go  ;  but 
I  ain't  a-goin'  nowhere  to  be  run  over  by 


The   Uncalled     251 

the  cars  or  wrecked  or  somethin'.  Not  that 
I  'm  so  powerful  afeared  of  anything  like 
that,  fur  I  do  hope  I  'm  prepared  to  go  when 
ever  the  Master  calls ;  but  it  ain't  fur  me 
to  begin  a-runnin'  around  at  my  age,  after 
livin'  all  these  years  at  home.  No,  in 
deed.  Why,  I  could  n't  sleep  in  no  other 
bed  but  my  own  now.  I  don't  take  to  no 
sich  new  things." 

And  go  Mrs.  Hodges  would  not.  So 
Eliphalet  was  forced  to  write  and  refuse  the 
offered  treat.  But  on  a  day  there  came 
another  letter,  and  he  could  no  longer  refuse 
to  grant  the  wish  of  his  beloved  boy.  The 
missive  was  very  brief.  It  said  only,  "  Alice 
has  promised  to  marry  me.  Won't  you  and 
Aunt  Hester  come  and  see  me  joined  to  the 
dearest  girl  in  the  world  ?  "  There  was  a 
postscript  to  it :  "  I  did  not  love  Elizabeth. 
I  know  it  now." 

"  Hester,  I  'm  agoin'."    said  Eliphalet. 

"  Go  on,  'Liphalet,  go  on.  I  want  you 
to  go,  but  I  'm  set  in  my  ways  now.  I  do 
hope  that  girl  kin  do  something  besides  work 
in  an  office.  She  ought  to  be  a  good  house 
keeper,  an'  a  good  cook,  so  's  not  to  kill  that 
pore  child  with  dyspepsy.  I  do  hope  she 
won't  put  saleratus  in  her  biscuits." 


252,     The  Uncalled 


"  I  think  it 's  Freddie's  soul  that  needs 
feedin.' " 

"  His  soul  '11  go  where  it  don't  need  feedin', 
ef  his  stomach  ain't  'tended  to  right.  Ef  I 
went  down  there,  I  could  give  the  girl  some 
points." 

"  I  don't  reckon  you  'd  better  go,  Hester. 
As  you  say,  you  're  set  in  yore  ways,  an' 
mebbe  her  ways  'ud  be  diff'rent ;  an'  then 
—  then  you'd  both  feel  it." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she  thinks  she  knows  it 
all,  like  most  young  people  do." 

"  I  hope  she  don't ;  but  I  'm  a-goin'  down 
to  see  her  anyhow,  an'  I  '11  carry  yore  blessin' 
along  with  mine." 

For  the  next  week,  great  were  the  prepa 
rations  for  the  old  man's  departure,  and  when 
finally  he  left  the  old  gate  and  turned  his 
back  on  the  little  cottage  it  was  as  if  he  were 
going  on  a  great  journey  rather  than  a  trip 
of  less  than  a  hundred  miles.  It  had  been 
a  long  time  since  he  had  been  on  a  train, 
and  at  first  he  felt  a  little  dubious.  But  he 
was  soon  at  home,  for  his  kindly  face  drew 
his  fellow-passengers  to  him,  and  he  had 
no  lack  of  pleasant  companions  on  the  way. 

Like  Fred,  the  noises  of  the  great  station 
would  have  bewildered  him,  but  as  he  alighted 


The  Uncalled     253 

and  passed  through  the  gate  a  strong  hand 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  palm  was 
pressing  the  palm  of  his  beloved  son.  The 
old  carpet-bag  fell  from  his  hands. 

"  Freddie  Brent,  it  ain't  you  ?  " 

"It's  I,  Uncle  'Liph,  and  no  one  else. 
And  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  that  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  Give  me  that  bag." 

They  started  away,  the  old  man  chatter 
ing  like  a  happy  child.  He  could  not  keep 
from  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  young  man's 
face  and  form. 

"  Well,  Freddie,  you  jest  don't  look  like 
yoreself.  You  're  —  you  're  —  " 

"  I  'm  a  man,  Uncle  'Liph." 

"  I  allus  knowed  you  'd  be,  my  boy.  I 
allus  knowed  you  'd  be.  But  yore  aunt 
Hester  told  me  to  ask  you  ef — ef  you'd 
dropped  all  yore  religion.  She 's  mighty 
disturbed  about  yore  dancin'." 

Brent  laughed  aloud  in  pure  joy. 

"  I  knowed  you  had  n't,"  the  old  man 
chuckled. 

"  Lost  it  all  ?  Uncle  'Liph,  why,  I  Ve 
just  come  to  know  what  religion  is.  It's  to 
get  bigger  and  broader  and  kinder,  and  to 
live  and  to  love  and  be  happy,  so  that  peo 
ple  around  you  will  be  happy." 


254     The  Uncalled 

u  You  're  still  a  first-rate  preacher, 
Freddie." 

"Oh,  yes,  Uncle  'Liph;  I  've  been  to  a 
better  school  than  the  Bible  Seminary.  I 
have  n't  got  many  religious  rules  and  form 
ulas,  but  I  'm  trying  to  live  straight  and  do 
what  is  right." 

The  old  man  had  paused  with  tears  in 
his  eyes.  "  I  been  a-prayin'  fur  you,"  he 
said. 

"  So  has  Alice,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"  though  I  don't  see  why  she  needs  to  pray. 
She  's  a  prayer  in  herself.  She  has  made 
me  better  by  letting  me  love  her.  Come 
up,  Uncle  'Liph.  I  want  you  to  see  her 
before  we  go  on  to  my  little  place." 

They  stopped  before  a  quiet  cottage,  and 
Fred  knocked.  In  the  little  parlour  a  girl 
came  to  them.  She  was  little,  not  quite  up 
to  Fred's  shoulder.  His  eyes  shone  as  he 
looked  down  upon  her  brown  head.  There 
were  lines  about  her  mouth,  as  if  she  had 
known  sorrow  that  had  blossomed  into  sweet 
ness.  The  young  man  took  her  hand. 
"Uncle  'Liph,"  he  said,  "this  is  Alice." 

She  came  forward  with  winning  frankness, 
and  took  the  old  man's  hand  in  hers.  The 
tears  stood  in  his  eyes  again. 


The  Uncalled     255 

"  This  is  Alice,"  he  said  ;  "  this  is  Alice.'* 
Then  his  gaze  travelled  to  Fred's  glowing 
face,  and,  with  a  sob  in  his  voice  that  was  all 
for  joy,  he  added,  "  Alice,  I  'm  glad  you're 
a-livin'." 


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